


Reconquista

by coolbreeze1



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-07
Updated: 2011-10-07
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:33:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbreeze1/pseuds/coolbreeze1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everyone was happy with the deal Woolsey and Atlantis worked out with the Coalition. A small group of them band together, intent on holding a new trial and charging John Sheppard - the visible leader of Atlantis for much of Pegasus - with the deaths of two million people. And some of them will stop at nothing in their quest for justice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reconquista

**Author's Note:**

> This is the long, long, long overdue fic for Susnn, who won the bidding for the Help_Pakistan auction. Thank you for your generous donation! I hope this story does justice to the prompt. Super HUGE thanks to my wonderful beta, everybetty! I'm not quite sure how I ever wrote anything before without her feedback and support. Also, huge thanks to sgafan for her feedback and that final push at the end. You guys are great!!

**Part 1**

The bomb blast shook the walls and floors, dust cascading from the ceiling in a stream of petrified rain. Ronon shook his head with a growl, blinking out the dirt. Screams echoed down the hallway from the direction of the explosion, followed by a deep, thunderous rumble.

"McKay," he hissed, glancing over his shoulder. "How many bombs did you plant?"

His teammate looked terrified, blinking bulging eyes. "Two. One to distract so we could escape, and one to actually escape. Near the entrance," he whispered back. "That second one might have been… uh… a little more powerful than I was planning."

Another crack of thunder sounded, more dust and dirt spewing from growing cracks in the walls and ceiling. Ronon drew back as a rock dropped to the floor. A handful of people rushed past, away from the entrance and too panicked to notice the group from Atlantis huddled in the small hallway off to the side.

He checked the hallway, making sure no one else was headed their way, then crawled back to his teammates. The first bomb had been small—more of a light show of spewing flames that hadn't hurt anyone but had sent the entire crowded room into a full-fledged panic.

McKay was crouched in front of his teammates, holding a metal bar with two hands, his grip so tense his fingers had turned white. He was breathing in jerking gasps, unaware of the spit dribbling down the side of his face. Behind him, Teyla, Sheppard, and Beckett leaned against the wall.

"We've got to move," Ronon said. "This whole area is becoming unstable." He shot an irritated glance at McKay, hoping it would rile the scientist and snap him out of his panic. It was a technique Sheppard had perfected over the years, but it didn't always work when Ronon tried it.

"Oops," McKay answered, jutting out his chin and looking anything but remorseful.

Ronon grinned. If anyone could blow up a city carved inside the solid rock of a mountain, that had survived thousands of years of civil war and Wraith attacks, it was McKay. Ronon didn’t like to admit it, but his teammate was terrifying at times.

But the problem at the moment was they were still in the mountain.

"Isn't there another way out of here?" Beckett asked.

Sheppard roused at the question. "I never saw an exit," he mumbled.

Ronon clenched his jaw, a surge of anger pulsing through him. Sheppard was pale, bruises on his neck and face a sharp contrast to his grayish-white skin. Signs of a fever were the only visible part of him showing any color, bright red circles splashed on his cheekbones. He blinked glassy eyes, but Ronon knew that look. The effort of keeping his head up was almost beyond his abilities with all of his attention focused inward.

 _Damn the people who'd kidnapped him,_ Ronon thought. His gut churned at the thought of what they'd done to him, all in the name of justice. The hall shook again, and a flurry of boots whipped past, this time heading toward the blast site. Soldiers. They had to move, now.

"Teyla—"

"I will cover us. Rodney, help Carson with John."

One second the team had been ambling through market stalls, enjoying the weather and each other's company. The next, Sheppard had disappeared without a trace, without a fight, without any clue as to what had happened. They'd scoured the market the rest of the day for any sign of him and turned up nothing.

 _Damn it._ He needed his gun, but that was outside with Teyla and Rodney's weapons. The guards of the Fortress Realm of Daet had forbidden any outside weaponry into their mountain city, claiming that they wanted the trial proceedings to happen without violent incident.

He growled at the thought. He had a knife that he'd kept hidden on his person. Teyla and Carson both had knives the doctor had managed to slip past an extensive search of his medical bag, and Teyla had a handgun she'd wrestled from one of the guards just after McKay's first explosion. His teammates shuffled around behind him, and Ronon tensed at the pained cry that came from John when McKay and Beckett lifted him up to his feet.

In the end, it had been a representative of the Coalition who had given them the information they needed: a second, secret trial held by a rival faction in the Coalition's council vying for the support of those who had not been satisfied with the outcome of the first trial, with the intent of charging Sheppard with the deaths of two million people throughout the galaxy. Without the Council representative's help, they would have continued to flounder, chasing around the market for a friend who was no longer there.

Ronon looked back, his eyes fastening on his team leader's chest and stomach. Sheppard had on an oversized white shirt and brown pants—a regular style that he'd seen on many of the people of Daet attending the trial. But it was what hid beneath the filthy shirt that set Ronon's blood on fire. The anger welled up again, his muscles going taut.

The way he felt right at that moment, a hundred thousand soldiers of Daet wouldn't be able to stop him.

"Let's go," he rumbled and stepped out into the hallway.

 

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

Rough hands jerked John forward, throwing him onto a hard table and pulling him out of the daze he’d been floating in for who knew how long. Hadn’t he been in the market just minutes ago? Or maybe hours had passed. His head felt thick and heavy, like he’d been drugged, maybe even unconscious. He squirmed against the unforgiving surface of the table digging into his shoulder blades, and he shook his head at the brown cloth covering his face.

“Tie him down!” a gruff voice yelled.

John struggled harder, the fog lifting from his mind. The bag over his head was giving him the sensation that he was suffocating. More hands grabbed at his body, pressing against his shoulders and thighs. He hurt, but the signal wasn’t quite reaching his brain. He would feel it later, and it would be bad—he knew this in the rational, logical part of his brain.

A meaty palm pressed against his right forearm, and the cloud of disconnect evaporated. Pain exploded up the limb as calcified pieces grated against each other.

 _Broken?_ The errant thought crossed his mind, the right side of his brain insistent on cataloging the experience. His forearm was swollen and hot just below the elbow. Ropes slithered across bare skin, rubbing it raw, and he gasped as the bindings on his right arm tightened over the injury. Beads of light erupted across his vision, white against the brown fabric.

The sound of people moving around him faded and his head lolled to the side. His entire awareness focused on the pulse in his right arm, where his heart seemed to have taken root in a crack in the radius, all other sounds and sensation background scenery.

He didn’t think he’d passed out, but he wasn’t sure. Light flooded his vision as the bag over his head was ripped off, and he jerked his head in surprise. The pain in his arm reignited at the movement, and the contrast made him realize that that pain—and almost every other sensation—had faded to almost nothing, leading him to wonder if he’d been out of it for more than just a minute or two.

He blinked at the dim lighting, seeing stone, dungeon-like walls and electric light bulbs. Before he could reconcile the oddness of the two together, fingers dug into his hair, jerking his head toward a blurry figure.

“Sheppard,” a woman sneered,

Her voice was vaguely familiar and he blinked, willing his mind to catch up.

“What happened?” she called out.

“He resisted,” came the answer. “We had to subdue him quickly before we drew any attention. The market was crowded.”

Right. Market. He'd been at the great market on Trinnii with his team, wandering the stalls and fishing for intel on the state of affairs in that neck of the galaxy. His arm throbbed with increased intensity.

“My team?” he mumbled. _Were they here too?_

He heard the swish of cloth seconds before a hand slapped across his cheek, rattling his teeth. The room swam, and his gut churned in nausea. He blinked against the urge to just close his eyes and sink away from everything.

“No one saw you?”

“No, we escaped cleanly.”

The hand was back, pulling his head to the side. This time he saw dark hair flowing over bare shoulders, breasts pressing against a tight leather top.

“I have been waiting for this moment for a long time, John Sheppard.”

She wore a leather choker with beads dangling off of strings and bouncing against her throat when she spoke, and her name finally clicked in his brain.

“Shiana,” he rasped.

“You remember me,” she scoffed. “Surprising.”

“Tribes of Santhal.”

She frowned, hesitating a moment, but then her expression hardened again. “Do not speak that name—you have no right. You know _nothing_ of my people!”

Her voice had risen as she spoke, and the last word ended on a scream. John was ready this time, and he tensed as her hand released his hair and drew back. Not that it helped him much. She smacked him again, and his head snapped against the table. Stars burst in his vision and a groan slithered past gritted teeth. He closed his eyes against the pain and confusion.

“What do you want?” he asked, forcing the hoarse words out. He was having trouble breathing, and his right arm felt like it had grown three sizes too big, pressing against the ropes and cutting off the circulation to his hand.

Shiana turned away with a small smile, and he felt his heart sink. Whatever she wanted, it couldn’t be good.

“Get a message to the judges that we have Sheppard.”

A man behind her snapped to attention and ducked out of the room. _Judges?_ The last time he’d seen Shiana had been at the trial set up by the Coalition, and she’d been one of the judges that time. He shook his head, his mind reeling as it fought to make sense of his situation through a haze of pain and disorientation. They’d won that trial… well, not won, exactly. Woolsey had talked them out of it. Situation resolved. Problem over.

When Shiana turned back to him, she had a long knife, the blade glinting in the yellow incandescent light glowing out of dirty wall sconces. She leveled it at him and stepped forward, the tip steady and pointed toward his chest.

“You will not escape justice this time.”

She paused as if waiting for John to make some snappy, witty reply. He kept his mouth shut, not sure that he could manage anything but a pained whimper, and not wanting to give her the satisfaction of hearing that. Shadows flickered on the walls on either side of him as other people moved in close, crowding around the table.

Without warning, a dozen hands made short work of his clothes and boots. John reared in panic at suddenly finding himself naked and strapped down to the flat surface. The ropes dug into his flesh, and he caught a glimpse of Shiana standing near his feet, still holding her knife. She studied him, her eyes dancing in the steady electric light. There was malice and glee on the surface, but underneath that…

He shook his head. Emptiness. There was nothing beyond the surface in those eyes. He twisted and writhed with renewed panic, and Shiana smiled, running her tongue slowly over her lip.

John's head was jerked back and strapped down to the table, bringing an overhead light into view. He noticed the contrast again—dungeon cell stone walls and ceilings but with electricity. The people around him moved back, out of sight, and John sucked in a deep shuddering breath.

A hand rested on his stomach, and he flinched hard. The fingers danced lightly across the skin, trailing up his chest to his chin. He closed his eyes, trying in vain to turn his head away from the woman standing over him but hampered by the strap over his forehead. The finger moved up the side of his face stroking the skin from his jaw to his temple.

“What do you want?” he finally snapped, hating the raspy weakness of his voice. Shiana's smile widened.

“We are ready," a man said.

John tensed. He didn’t recognize that man’s voice, sounding somewhere above his head. He arched his back, straining to see who it was and managing to move a little despite the bindings. Shiana leaned over, forcing his head down until he was looking right at her. She stroked his cheek again, and the sensation sent cold shivers racing down his spine.

“Go to hell,” he growled.

“Such rage,” she crooned. Her hand moved away from his face and back to his injured arm. John went still when she rested her palm lightly over the swollen skin. She paused, making sure he was looking right at her, then pressed down hard.

He screamed and writhed in a vain attempt to escape. The bindings on the rest of his body dug in hard. Beyond the all-encompassing, pulsing agony, he distantly heard Shiana laughing. The pressure on his arm was released, but the pain was slower in abating. By the time he could see straight again, cold sweat dripped from his face and ran into his hair, leaving him wrung out and gasping in shock.

Shiana smiled down at him, expression vacant, and he blanched at the look in her eyes. “You’ve totally lost it,” he whispered. His entire body was trembling.

“You’re guilty,” she said, her voice low and harsh.

“What?”

“You’re guilty—admit it. It was your fault.”

John shook his head, forcing himself to look at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You remembered me! And the name of my people. Do you not remember what happened to them?”

John’s mind raced. Woolsey had been the one in the courtroom when she’d explained what had happened to her people, but he’d read the reports afterward. Asurans. Her people were dead, part of the Asurans’ strategy of attrition to wipe out the Wraith food supply.

He swallowed. “They were killed—”

“Murdered!” she roared. She grabbed his face with one hand and squeezed, digging her fingers into his face. He hissed in pain but kept his eyes on her, bracing himself for what she might do next.

“They were murdered. I watched them die.”

“I’m sorry—”

“It’s your fault! You are to blame, no matter what the other judges said, and I will have justice. You will pay for their deaths—I will make sure of that. We will not be bought off again."

Her hand slipped down his neck and she squeezed. John bucked, choking against the pressure, the pain in his arm forgotten. He struggled against bindings, feeling an invisible band tighten around his chest, crushing his heart and lungs.

"Shiana!" a man yelled.

Black spots danced across his vision. Shiana was leaning over him, but other hands snaked around her, pulling her away from him. When she finally released him, he coughed and gagged at the rush of oxygen vying to reach starving lungs.

"I thought we needed him alive for the trial."

It was the same man as before. The one who'd said they were ready. John's chest heaved as he pulled in oxygen, and he blinked at the sweat stinging his eyes. Shiana was standing next to him, breathing equally as hard. She shook off the hands holding her back and looked around the room, her expression going flat.

"His people are probably already on their way here. We must move quickly," she said, all traces of the uncontrollable anger from just a second ago gone. The people moving around the room closed in, and John got a clearer look at them. They were covered in clothing, including their heads and hands. Masked, gloved. Two of them spread a thin sheet over the lower half of his body, tucking it in around his legs. He had the sudden impression of being in a twisted medical shop of horror.

He stilled at that thought, and his heart began thumping loudly in his chest. Atlantis was coming, but how soon? And would it be soon enough? Unless they burst through the doors in the next thirty seconds, he doubted it. On cue, he felt a sharp jab in his arm, and he looked down to see a syringe being pulled out of the crook of his arm. A tall man with thick shoulders and a few errant gray hairs from a beard poking above his surgical mask stepped back, holding the needle to the side and watching him.

Racing heat across his shoulder and chest drew a blanket of lethargy in its wake, swamping John's body. Drugged. He was being drugged. His hands had been clutched into tight fists but they relaxed and fell limp even as he realized what was happening. The pain of his injured arm began to fade.

 _What had Shiana said? Judges? Justice?_

“Shit,” he breathed out. The drug was pulling him down quickly, against his will.

“The medicine is beginning to take effect,” the bearded man with the needle said. He had stopped Shiana from strangling him, told her they were trying to keep John alive. But if that was the case, then why the hell did they have him drugged and strapped to a table? John blinked heavy eyelids to peer up at him, seeing only dark eyes through the swaths of cloth. The man—a doctor?—pressed a hand against John’s chest, his gaze fastened on John’s face.

“Whaaa…” John mumbled.

The man nodded and turned away, but before John could wonder what was happening, he returned with a tray of equipment and set it on the table. He reached over, grabbing the knife out of Shiana's hand.

 _No, not a knife,_ John's brain filled in. _Scalpel._

The doctor held the blade up to the light, studying the edge, then glanced over at Shiana. “I’m ready,” he said. "Are you certain about this? I say again that I cannot guarantee he will survive the surgery, but I can guarantee he will die from this within a matter of days anyway."

 _Surgery?_ John blinked, the thoughts coming slower.

“Do it. This whole idea of a 'new and fair' trial is a joke, but the others are not to be dissuaded from their plan. The least this will do is ensure Sheppard won't be removed until it is over, let them think they are having their fair trial.”

"You do not intend for him to survive." A statement, not a question.

Shiana glanced up. "I intend for Sheppard to pay for his crimes," she spat out. "I will have my justice, regardless of what those _rejjegg_ judges say or do. They are cowards, putting on a show of civility for the people they wish to rule so that everyone can feel good about themselves."

The doctor blinked his eyes, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple, near his eyebrow. "We'll place the device near the surface, just below the skin. That position provides the highest rate of survival, but half of my test subjects died within the first hour anyway." He stopped, glancing at Shiana. "You are sure of this? If the other judges find out what we are doing..."

"Terrall is leading this trial, and he agrees with my plan. We will tell the rest of them Sheppard became ill after arriving and let them remain oblivious. They think they are here for a fair accounting of Atlantis's activities, and they will only find out the truth if one of us tells them." She was breathing hard, spit flying from her lips as she spoke. "You were not at the first trial. You did not see how the Lanteans twisted words, made themselves look innocent. We stick to the plan."

"Fine," the doctor huffed. "May I suggest you not activate it until the surgery is complete then? Otherwise you risk blowing us all up. You have the detonator?"

 _Blow up? Detonator?_ The black edges of his vision were starting to creep inward, his ability to follow what was being said dying with this sight. John gave a half-hearted effort to sit up or pull at the bindings or something, but all he managed was a low moan. Shiana shifted to the side as the doctor set the knife down and snapped his fingers, and the other personnel crowded in closer. A cold cloth wiped sweat and dirt of the skin of his stomach and chest. Something bitter-smelling was splashed on next, painted on by one of the anonymous masked figures.

“Hurry,” Shiana hissed.

“As soon as he is unconscious,” the old man answered. He picked the knife up again and stared at John’s face. Waiting.

 _Dear God, pass out,_ he begged but consciousness lingered a few seconds longer. His eyes began to water, desperate for the need to blink. He sucked in a deep breath, feeling sweat bead on his face and neck again. The man continued to watch him but John’s vision was narrowing to a pinpoint of fading light.

The last image he saw before dropping mercifully into a black abyss was of the old doctor dropping the scalpel toward his stomach.

 

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

McKay's explosions had set alarms off throughout the entire mountain. Ronon led them through hallway after hallway, hoping he'd eventually hit some sign of an exit. He stuck to the lower levels, mentally keeping them at about ground level. Most of the people they came across paid them no attention, consumed by their own fears and need to get to safety. The few guards who stopped to stare at them for more than a second were quickly knocked out, Ronon using his entire body as he swung his fists. That's what they got for taking away his gun.

"Ronon, hold up," Beckett called out behind him. "We need to stop for a minute."

He reared to a halt, his muscles protesting the abrupt arrest. They couldn't stop. They _needed_ to keep going.

"There is a room over here." Teyla was peering down a narrow hallway, off the wider one they'd been jogging down. She glanced at Ronon, face shimmering with sweat, then slid her eyes to Sheppard sagging between Beckett and McKay. "I'll make sure it is clear."

Without waiting for a response, she surged forward, diving through the curtain that served as the doorway. Ronon took a step to follow her, then heard footsteps pounding toward them. Heavy boots that clicked as the heels struck the stone floor. Soldiers.

"Let's go," he said. He signaled them toward the room before Teyla had a chance to return. It was too risky waiting in the hallway, and from the sounds of it, there were a lot of soldiers about to come upon them. Ronon could handle a few here and there with his fists, but not the dozen or so running their way.

Teyla whipped the curtain back just as they reached it, blinking in surprise but recovering quickly. She waved them in, and McKay and Beckett dragged Sheppard to the far side. The room was not huge, and boxes lined the corners and edges. Ronon peeked through a few near the doorway and saw they held plates, empty jars, scraps of metal, light bulbs, and folded cloth. A storage area, one he hoped wasn't frequently used.

Sheppard moaned as he was lowered to the floor, right as the pounding feet ran past their small hallway. Ronon peered through a slit, making sure none of them stopped to investigate. He counted eight soldiers, heavily armed and wearing similar uniforms to the ones who’d been guarding the Ring, the entrance to the mountain, and the trial.

"Hold on, John. We'll get you out of here soon enough, lad." His voice was even, but Ronon recognized Beckett’s tone—tight and controlled but urgent, revealing the seriousness of the situation and an effort not to give into its accompanying fear.

He glanced back to see Sheppard's head cradled in McKay's lap. The scientist had one hand on Sheppard's forehead, but his face was turned away and his eyes closed. He was quiet—another sign to Ronon of how bad things were.

"I need more light," Beckett ordered.

Teyla dug through the medical bag at his side, producing a flashlight and illuminating Sheppard's torso. McKay glanced down then away again, gritting his teeth. His Adam's apple bobbed visibly. Ronon's gut clenched in sympathy and he rubbed a hand over his face, forcing himself to look at the blood-covered bandages. They didn't look like they'd been changed in days. Hot anger heaved through him, the muscles in his back becoming tense and hard. The need to smash something into oblivion pulsed through him, causing his hands to shake.

Beckett produced a pair of scissors, the tips rounded and angled upward to ensure they didn't cut the skin. He sliced through the bandages and peeled them back. Teyla and McKay had leaned forward to look, but they jerked back at the sight.

"Oh, God," McKay moaned, slapping a hand over his mouth and nose.

Ronon stepped forward to get a clearer look then froze at the horrific sight framed in the beam of light. An incision ran four or five inches long just below Sheppard's breastbone, sewn together almost haphazardly with jagged loops of black thread, the skin puckered and red around it.

"Damn barbarians." The doctor turned to his bag, digging frantically through it for his supplies. He pulled out a bag of saline and IV tubing then handed it over to Teyla.

"Doc, we don't have time for this," Ronon said.

"I know you're trying to get us all out of here alive, but if we don't do this, he won't survive." He didn't look up while he spoke, his movements fast but precise as he worked. Teyla was already moving, inserting the needle and squeezing the saline fluid without being told.

Bruises mottled Sheppard's chest and stomach, smaller, older ones on his face and neck. Beckett pressed against the sides of the incision with a grimace. Sheppard flinched, crying out then slamming his jaw shut. He was still conscious enough to know he needed to keep quiet. Ronon tightened his fists, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands. He heard another set of footsteps outside, and he forced himself to turn away from his friend and move back to the door. He couldn't help with the medical stuff, but he could make sure they had a few safe moments to work.

Two people ran past—civilians, probably locals based on their clothing. Sheppard had the same shirt on as one of them. Behind him, his team leader moaned again.

"Hang on, John. I know it hurts. I'm giving you something for that now."

Ronon glanced back and saw Sheppard flail one arm, the IV tubing moving with it. The other lay by his side, immobile.

"Carson, his right arm…"

"Aye, I saw that. I've got a splint in my bag."

Teyla leaned over him while Beckett continued to work. They worked silently around each other, Teyla tightening a brace around Sheppard's arm while Beckett cleaned the incision.

"He's burning up," McKay said, pressing his hand harder into Sheppard's forehead until his fingers went white. Ronon bit back the urge to yell at him, to tell him to ease up. He probably had no idea he was digging his hand into Sheppard's face.

Sheppard groaned and writhed under all of the hands. "Please…don't…not again…"

"Sheppard, it's us," McKay said, leaning forward until his face was directly over the colonel's.

"Rodney?"

"Yeah, I'm here. So's Teyla and Ronon and Carson."

"Ronon…remember. Trial. Justice."

Ronon closed his eyes and pressed his head the door. He felt a sharp pang through his chest at Sheppard's words.

"Justice? Hardly. Don't let them win, Sheppard. You hear me?"

Ronon glanced back at the group. McKay was whispering, but he held Sheppard's attention completely. Teyla was back to squeezing the saline bag and watching Beckett work. The doctor was single-mindedly focused on the sick and injured patient in front of him. Part of Ronon want to join them, be part of the group and let Sheppard see him, let him know he was still trying to help, no matter how far out of his element the enemy thrust him or how far beyond his abilities he found himself in. He used his shirt to wipe away the sweat and dust of the day from his face and stayed at the door.

"I can't believe he has a _bomb_ in him," McKay hissed, glancing up at the others. "I mean, I've heard of some barbaric, twisted practices, but this? Planting a bomb in a live person then threatening to blow him up if we tried to rescue him?"

"I can feel the bloody thing under the skin. It's not deep, but it's already caused a bad infection. I don't dare try to take it out here, under these conditions."

"Yy-you…haffgett..'way…" Sheppard slurred, rolling his head first to one side, then the other. "T-T..'la?"

"I'm here, John."

"B-bomb. If it…gg-goes offff…"

"It will not go off. We will not let that happen to you, John."

"John, I know you're in pain and feeling terrible, but you need to relax and let us take care of this," Beckett said. He squeezed Sheppard's shoulder, then produced a syringe. "This is all I can give you at the moment without knowing what other drugs you've got in your system, but it should help. Keep fighting."

Sheppard nodded. He watched Beckett plunge the contents of the syringe into his IV. Everyone paused, clinging to what they hoped the medication would do. A moment passed, then Sheppard visibly relaxed, muscles going limp as he succumbed to the painkiller. Beckett sat up, pushing his hands into his lower back and stretching it out for a second. "You do have the detonator, right?"

McKay patted his vest pocket. "Right here. It's turned off."

"What if there's another detonator?" Ronon asked, a thrum of fear rushing though his chest. Sheppard blinked, looking from him to McKay.

"There isn't," the physicist assured him. "I'm sure there isn't. I mean, not 100 percent positive, but based on the design of the detonator itself, I don't think there's more than one."

"Go," Sheppard whispered.

"We are not leaving you, John." Teyla grabbed his hand, squeezing hard.

Ronon shook his head. He understood not wanting to put anyone else in danger, but he could also see the fear in Sheppard's eyes, the struggle between pushing everyone away for their own good and holding onto them tightly for his own.

"If there was another detonator," Rodney said, "they've had plenty of time to set it off."

Beckett had repacked his medical bag, ready to move again. He caught Ronon's eye and nodded.

"Alright, let's get ready to move again."

Seconds later, Sheppard was on his feet, propped up between Beckett and McKay. The doctor held the IV bag, still squeezing fluids into Sheppard's body. McKay's face was red from the strain of holding Sheppard's almost dead weight up already, but he waved Ronon forward, urging him to move. They shuffled forward, and Sheppard's head slumped forward, chin on chest. His legs moved with them though, keeping pace as long as they didn't move too far too fast.

Ronon slipped out of the room and checked the hallway, then signaled the others to follow. He felt the weight of their lives on his back, their survival hinging on his actions, but this time, he was ready.

This time, he was in his element, in a situation that relied on his strengths and not his weaknesses.

 

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

John was already stumbling down a hallway, supported on either side by rough hands gripping his upper arms by the time he managed to peel his eyes open and lift his head up. His stomach pulled, a sharp stabbing sensation muted under a flood of numbing drugs. The image of a man holding a scalpel to his stomach flashed through his mind, disappearing before John had a chance to make sense of it.

"Whaa…" His voice trailed off. It sounded thick and congested to his ears, echoing in and out. The stone walls with their electric lights looked vaguely familiar, but he had no recollection of where he was, or how he'd gotten here, or even of leaving Atlantis in the first place.

Before he could work anything out, the guards turned abruptly down another corridor, jerking him off balance. He felt his legs fold, but the men holding him up kept walking, unperturbed by his inability to maintain his balance. The pressure on his arms intensified as he was dragged along, and it took a few hopping steps and a lot of effort before he was able to get his feet back under him and back to his stumbling gate.

Pain thrummed under his skin, but it was distant, like his brain knew it was there but couldn't quite reach the nerve endings. Drugged—he remembered now that he'd been drugged. He flashed suddenly to the hard table, to being tied down and stripped naked. To Shiana and the vacuum of insanity that hovered behind her surface expressions.

Doctor. Surgery. _Knife._

Flailing at the memory, he looked down, his legs folding under him. He was wearing loose brown pants and a white shirt three sizes too large. Whatever they'd done to him was hidden under the fabric. He sucked in a deep breath, feeling his heart ramp up. What the hell had they done to him? His last memory was of the doctor holding a scalpel while the rest of his staff prepped his stomach and chest for… for something…

His mind blanked. It had been something big. Something horrendous and too overwhelming to think about. Something that had freaked him out like few other things he'd encountered in the Pegasus Galaxy. The drugs they'd given him had to be strong, because if he’d had surgery on his stomach, he should be feeling it more than he was. The guards turned again, but they slowed down this time, allowing John to shift his weight and keep up with them. They entered a set of double doors into a wide room and paused. John lifted his head, feeling the muscles in his neck shake with the effort.

The front of the room held a dais furnished with a long table and a row of chairs. In the center was a roofless cage containing a narrow bench. Tables sat on each side of the cage, chairs facing the dais, and behind those sat rows of seats all the way to the back wall. A few people milled around the room, but they paid him no mind.

The guards moved again, dragging him forward. They swung the door to the cage open and thrust him inside, and John collapsed on the bench. Instinctively, he'd thrown out his right arm to catch himself, and he howled as pain exploded from the limb, lightning bolts racing up and down from a fireball centered just below his elbow.

"Shut it," one of the guards growled.

John hunched over, and the pressure against his stomach awakened new pain. He groaned at the onslaught, the too-strong drugs suddenly feeling not strong enough. The guard slammed the door shut, and John flinched. He was breathing too fast, drowning in pain and unable to suck in enough oxygen. He had about a second warning before his stomach twisted and he lost what little food was still left in it.

Moments later, hands grabbed him and John realized he was on the floor of the cage, curled in a ball. Had he passed out? It hadn't felt like it, but he heard a din of noise around him indicating there were a lot more people in the room than before. The hands picked him up and set him back on the bench, and then Shiana thrust her face in front of his.

"Get it together, Sheppard," she whispered, words lashing out like a whip. She held up a small gray box that resembled a thumb drive, topped with a rudimentary-looking switch and glowing purple light. "You talk to anyone or try to escape or do anything but sit there quietly, and I will detonate the bomb."

"Go to hell," he muttered, but his heart was pounding.

Shit. _Bomb._

He remembered it now—he had a bomb in his gut. His head was resting between two bars at his back, and that was the only reason it hadn't flopped over to the side. He had no strength to lift it up and look down at his chest despite the panic rushing through him.

He had a bomb inside him. He closed his eyes, concentrating his focus on the sharp ache of the incision. The pain was expanding, becoming sharper and more defined. In a few minutes, he'd be screaming or crying, regardless of Shiana's warning. He took a deep breath, feeling his ribs expand and his lungs and diaphragm press down. What did a bomb feel like? Could he feel it if he moved around?

 _Would moving around set it off?_

That thought paralyzed him. One of the people holding him up was shifting around, and a waft of air smelling of mud and raw meat invaded his nostrils. Someone new had approached. John stifled a moan, breathing heavily through his mouth to rid his nose of the stench. A second later, he felt a sharp jab in his arm, and all thoughts of nausea and throwing up fled his mind.

"That is as much as I can give him, but it should get him through today's proceedings."

The doctor. He recognized the voice. He opened his eyes and shifted his gaze toward the man, seeing graying hair and beard. The lip was shaved clean, giving the doctor on Amish look. The clothes added to the effect. The meat smell just made John sick to his stomach. The doctor was no longer wearing surgical robes, dressed instead in brown pants, white collarless shirt, and matching brown vest—all neatly pressed and tucked in. The epitome of civilization. John felt his heart flutter, and then the pain and panic began to fade beneath a warm buzz.

"Whoa," he said. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and he licked his lips. "Whassitt?"

No one replied, if they understood him at all. The doctor pulled up John's shirt and John finally managed to pick his head up. He let gravity do the rest of the work, his chin dropping to his chest and allowing him to peer down at blood-soaked bandages.

"If you want him to survive the trial, the guards must be a little more gentle in their handling," the doctor snapped, glaring at Shiana.

He tugged John's shirt back down, then threaded a belt under John’s armpits, tying it to the cage bars to keep him upright. Seconds later, his wrists were tied to the bench on little loops at his sides. It was a testament to whatever the doctor had injected him with that he hardly felt the rope being pulled tight around his broken arm.

His head was buzzing. The doctor pushed his forehead up and back until his head rested slightly between the bars again, eliminating any effort on John's part to keep it still. He sagged, watching fuzzy figures blur past him. Time passed, and sounds rose and fell, alternating between whining crescendos and a monotonous droning, but never quite penetrating the invisible bubble around him. Particles of light glimmered in the air in front of him—tiny little stars dancing and gyrating to their own music.

“And how long did you have to torture Sheppard before he gave you this story?”

The roaring voice pierced through the haze, and John flinched like someone had slapped him. The stars snapped out of sight, reacting instinctively like animals to disappear at the first sign of danger. John blinked, bringing metal bars into focus.

Cage. He vaguely recalled sitting down in a cage. Were the stars in here with him? He sighed, wishing they'd return. They should be safe in the cage. Protected. Beyond the bars, people sat at a long desk up on the dais. A half dozen at least, their hair and faces fuzzy and blurring the harder he tried to look at them. He blinked, concentrating on one person at the very end. A woman—John knew her, he thought. He wasn't sure, though. Her face warped and twisted like the way that one Website let you mess with pictures. Radek recreated it and shown him. They'd made funny pictures of Rodney and plastered them all over the hallways of Atlantis. Her eyes bulged, then sunk back into her head, then her chin grew long and pointy, and her ears ballooned out like an elephant's before fading into the blurry mess of the rest of the faces next to her.

“We did no such thing!” another man answered, his voice loud and booming.

John grunted and tried to turn his head toward the voice, but the energy required to lift it from its nook between the bars was too much and the woman with the twisting face was glaring at him, her face sharp and focused again. She'd picked up a glowing purple rock. Pretty, really, but it was melting around her hand and she should set it down before it dripped all over the floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a table and two hands leaning on the surface, their knuckles white. He glanced in the other direction and saw the same thing.

 _Like a mirror,_ he thought, his mouth quirking up at the corners. The smiled dropped a second later. _No, not a mirror. They were wearing different shirts. The sleeves different colors._

He breathed slowly, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Achy pain was beginning to surface and he frowned. Cage. He was tied to a bench in a cage in…

His gaze flitted toward the woman. Shiana.

 _Trial. The people on the dais must be the judges._

One of the other judges sitting in the very center and taller than the rest leaned forward and glared at the man to John's left. He had slicked back dark hair that glinted in the light.

 _The stars!_ John thought. _They were all nestled in the other man's head._ He tried to lift a hand toward them but nothing moved. The stars glimmered, making little zig-zags as the man spoke and jerked his head. Light was good. The man must be the good judge and Shiana one of the evil ones. Like a story. Her hair did not have stars.

“Ronon of Sateda," the man was saying, to the delight of the little stars on his head, "this is your third and last warning. You have been appointed Colonel Sheppard's Speaker by this court, but another outburst from you will end these proceedings and we will make our decision on his culpability immediately."

Ronon? He knew a Ronon. Friend—Ronon was a friend. No, brother. Ronon would do anything for him. He shifted a little, jerking against the ropes around his arms. His right arm flared for a second and he stilled. _Right arm, broken. Don't move, John._

Not moving sounded like an excellent plan. He took another deep breath, then another. The humming lethargy crowded in again, chasing back awareness and all its aches and pains, and some of the stars zoomed out of the man's head and back toward him. He liked the stars. They bobbed and weaved around each other in a shaft of light, dancing to a growing humming sound. Hum, hum, hum, hummm…

“And then Colonel Sheppard shot his own leader,” the stranger said.

The buzz cut out abruptly and John jerked his head up. "Whaaa…?" he slurred. His voice was hoarse, almost a whisper, and too soft for anyone to hear. The dark-haired one was focused entirely on the man to John's right. Slick hair. Slick.

"John?" a voice whispered nearby.

The weight of his head was too much, and he let it fall back. The voice whispering his name echoed through his mind, fading away. The stars had been scared off for good this time, not even retreating to the tall man at the front, Slick.

The man John couldn't see—somewhere off to his right—was still speaking, recounting events that John thought he had long since buried. The memories rose, their edges jagged and slicing through his mind.

“The Wraith Queen had fed on the man—a Colonel Sumner—but he was still alive. Before she could continue feeding, Colonel Sheppard shot his own leader through the heart, killing him instantly.” He paused, drawing in the judges. “Was it out of mercy? Perhaps that was part of his motivation. The Wraith Queen was in the middle of interrogating his leader, though, and I propose his true motivation was to end the interrogation.”

“What was the nature of this interrogation? What did the Queen want to know?” the judge next to Slick asked. He had stringy blond hair that fell over his eyes, like a bad stereotype of a surfer or beach bum.

“The location of their homeworld.”

John groaned, shaking his head. _Earth._ He had to protect Earth. He couldn't tell them where it was. Drugged. He was drugged—he knew this feeling. But did they know he was trained for this? He didn't think so. They would find out. He would protect Earth. He wouldn't tell them what they wanted no matter what drugs they gave him. He leaned forward, making it only two inches or so before he felt a tight band across his chest stop him.

“So Colonel Sheppard took the life of his own man, his leader—one who should have been accorded the highest amount of respect—in order to prevent the Wraith from learning the location of their own world?”

“That is correct.”

“And what followed?” Judge Slick asked. He did not look nice anymore. His face was pinched and angry, his skin changing colors like a chameleon—red, white, purple, blue, white dots then red again.

“Colonel Sheppard was stunned and captured almost immediately, then brought before the Queen himself. The Wraith Queen then attempted to learn of his homeworld’s location from him.”

"No," John groaned, blinking sweat out of his eyes. It was blurring his vision, but the judges and their dais and the blinking purple box were taking on harder, sharper edges.

 _Get it together, John. Don't tell them anything._

He'd been trained for this. His defenses were falling under a cloud of chemical confusion, but he tightened his right first, letting the pain of the broken limb sharpen his senses. If the Wraith learned of Earth, they would destroy everyone. He would not let that happen. He'd die first.

“And what happened next?”

He lifted his head, then had to squeeze his eyes closed when the whole room tilted.

"John?"

"Nnntt…" he moaned. He panted against a flare of pain in his right arm, which ignited a fire in his gut. "Nnnotttalknngg…pro…prot'ct…protect…"

The words would not form in his mouth, and he scowled in disgust. The Queen was _in_ his head. That's what this feeling was. Not drugs. Worse. She would try to make him feel safe first, like she was so powerful that his best bet for survival was to put his trust in her. Then she would ask questions about Earth and not answering would become more and more agonizing.

"John?" the voice whispered again, hissing and slithering around his head. He shivered, ducking his head down.

 _Fight the bitch Queen,_ his mind yelled at him. _Resist!_

“One of Colonel Sheppard’s men provided a distraction, allowing Sheppard the opportunity to attack the Queen. He killed her,” the man to his right, with his fists grinding into the table continued, endlessly droning on.

“And if he had not killed the Queen, did Colonel Sheppard believe she would have learned his world’s location?” Shiana asked.

“Yes." The sleeves and fists extracted themselves from the wood of the table. John watched out of the corner of his eye as they grew into arms, then a torso, then a head and legs. Another man, his grayish blond hair tied back in a ponytail with a leather strip. “Colonel Sheppard first killed his own man to prevent the Wraith from learning of his homeworld, then killed the Wraith Queen for the same reason. It was for his own people and his own world that he woke the Wraith all over this galaxy. Whatever noble cause he may subscribe to now, he did not act to protect the people of _this_ galaxy. He acted, recklessly, in order to protect himself and his own world in a distant galaxy. His actions in this moment led to the death of millions of lives and the destruction of hundreds, if not thousands of worlds and civilizations.”

John breathed faster, beads of sweat dripping down his face. What was he saying? People were moving around behind him, and a murmur of voices had picked up. Where was the Queen? She was here. He could feel her. The droning hum returned, but not a soothing one this time. Angry. Angry at him.

"Whh…" He tried to speak, but the words stuttered and slipped, dribbling down the side of his chin.

“I yield to the defender on the charge of waking the Wraith,” the pony-tail man said, returning to the table. His arms melted back into the wood.

John closed his eyes. Sweat soaked through his hair, running down his neck and back and clinging to his shirt. He squirmed, stifling a moan at the knife blade of pain that sliced through his gut. The Wraith queen was still floating in his head, dancing around the walls protecting all of his secrets.

 _Fight, John. Resist, resist, fight. Fight. Fight!_ The voice in his head screamed at him, but the thunderclap of pain jolting through him was screaming louder, drowning out everything else.

 

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

 **Part 2**

The drugs wore off at some point. John's sense of time was skewed, so he had no idea if it was minutes or hours after the trial had started. As the seconds crawled by, the incision at the top of his stomach burned, nerve endings smoldering. Were it not for the band across his chest and under his armpits holding him up, he would have been a quivering ball on the floor of the cage.

The pain of his broken arm throbbed, but it was rapidly taking second place to the one in his torso. He wanted nothing more than to curl up around the agony, but he had no strength to even open his eyes, let alone work on loosening the binding tying him down. He heard the rumble of voices around him speaking, the movement of footsteps and chairs creaking, of fists banging on tables.

He kept his eyes closed through it all, breathing in for three counts, holding for three, exhaling for three. Over and over and over again. It was a little like poking fingers into a leaky dam, but if he could keep a handle on his breathing, he could pin the pain back. Eventually it would overwhelm him, possibly kill him but he had only enough strength to plan nine seconds at a time.

In—one, two, three. Hold—one, two, three. Out—one, two, three.

He remembered the market vaguely. Remembered beefy arms grabbing him from behind, shoving a fruity smelling cloth over his mouth and nose. He'd fought, but whatever was on the cloth had subdued him quickly, and he'd seen the backs of his teammates disappearing in the crowded stalls as the arms had dragged him away. He remembered waking up tied down to the table, Shiana's eyes vacant of sanity, the scalpel and the doctor and the dungeon room ER.

The surgery. The bomb. His breathing caught in his throat, and pain flared around the incision. He squeezed his eyes tighter, fighting back the agony. In—one, two, three. Hold—one, two, three. Out—one, two, three.

 _Do it again,_ he commanded himself. _Breathe, John. Breathe through this._

Shiana was sitting up on the dais, holding the damn detonator in her hand and watching him. The judges had gotten details of his first mission—the one where he'd killed Sumner—and they were now flinging questions at Ronon.

He felt tension in his chest loosen a little at that thought. Ronon was here, standing up for him. Defending him. The man was smart. Maybe not McKay smart or Woolsey smart, but he could handle these people. He'd hold his own against them and get John out of here. All John had to do was let them know about the bomb and the detonator, and the absolute conviction he'd heard from Shiana that one way or another, John would pay.

The muscles in his back twitched, causing a domino effect from his back to his stomach. He whimpered on the next exhale, slamming his jaw shut a second too late. The rest of the moan reverberated in his chest and he pressed the back of his head against the bars.

 _Breathe!_ The command was screaming through his head, but the pain was amplifying, spreading up his chest and wrapping long fingers around his throat. Moisture broke out on his face, cooling his skin.

"You may not address the accused!" The voice was screeching, barely controlled. _Shiana._

John felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. He sucked in a ragged breath, forcing himself to breathe through the pain.

"He is hurt," Teyla answered, her voice close to John's ear. It must be her hand on his shoulder. He tried to turn his head toward her, but managed only to lift his head a half inch off the bars before it dropped back down. He moaned, reaching for the control he'd had a few seconds before with his breathing.

"There will be no interference with the prisoner until the trial has ended."

A man spoke this time, and John pictured Slick, the light glowing off over-gelled hair. Had he not been so overwhelmed by pain, he might have blushed at the drug-induced hallucinations he'd hummed along to before, the dancing particles glinting off the overhead lights.

"At least allow us to bring a doctor in to care for him," Teyla said, her hand still warm on his shoulder.

"No," Slick answered. "There will be no further discussion on this matter. Please move away from the prisoner."

John managed to open his eyes, and caught a glimpse of Shiana handling the detonator, her thumb hovering over the switch. He twisted his head enough to catch a glimpse of Teyla behind him, reaching through the bars, and then his eyes slid shut again.

"S'okay, Teyla," he mumbled.

"Be strong, John. We will get you through this."

His stomach tightened, ripples of pain washing over him. He nodded, hoping to reassure her. Not that he would stop fighting, but did they know what was in him? What Shiana could do to all of them with a flip of a switch?

A sudden vision of his stomach exploding, a blast turning him inside out, shot through his brain. His chest hitched in response. He'd seen a lot of horrible things after a life in the military—and Pegasus certainly had no monopoly on barbaric acts of violence and inhumanity. The hand on his shoulder disappeared, and John shivered at the sudden sense of being alone.

"Continue, Speaker." Slick again, pressing forward.

The pain was cresting, the cracks in the dam widening. He needed to get back to basics. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Plug the holes, fight the fire. Slowly, the drumbeat of pain fell into a controlled rhythm. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. In, hold, out.

“The first charge against Sheppard is about him waking up the Wraith.”

Distantly, John heard Ronon start to talk. He kept the count going in his head in nine-second cycles, but he strained to catch whatever it was his friend was saying.

“I can’t argue against the story that that guy—”

“The accuser,” Judge Slick clarified. “Please use his proper title when you speak.”

There was a pause, then John heard a slow intake of air. _That's it, buddy,_ he thought. _You got this. Breathe in, breathe out._

“That he told us this morning,” Ronon said, louder, “but you accuse Sheppard of being responsible for the deaths of over two million people in this galaxy, in part because he killed a Wraith Queen and woke up the hibernating hives.”

There was a rustle of movement on the other side, then Sleeves—his accuser, apparently—spoke up. “It sounds like the defense is accepting guilt in this matter—”

“I’m not done,” Ronon snarled.

“Ronon Dex, you will control your temper,” Slick thundered. John flinched at the sudden crack of sound, then whimpered when the pain of his incision flared. In, hold, out. In, hold out.

Slick was still talking. “The accuser will maintain silence during the defense’s arguments. That is your first warning. Any further outbursts and you risk being removed from these proceedings, same as Ronon Dex.”

The air was heavy with tension, any small spark liable to ignite anger into an uncontrollable fireball. John's pain ramped up at the thought with a life of its own, eager to burn. A minute past, people shuffling uncomfortably in their seats while John counted through a dozen breathing cycles.

“We all know the history of this galaxy,” Ronon said, picking up his defense again. He'd calmed himself in that small pause. John could hear it in his voice. “Sheppard and his people arrived here five years ago. Were there no Wraith before then? How many ancient societies have we all come across, wiped out by the Wraith and lying in ruins for centuries?

"I am from Sateda, and many of you know what happened to my world. Some of you may have even once traded with us, and others may trade and deal with the few last survivors now living on Belkan.”

There was a soft murmur in the room at that, and John wondered how many others remembered the Sateda Ronon had grown up in. The thought had never occurred to him before that there would be others—traders who'd visited Sateda before it had been destroyed.

“We destroyed two Wraith darts when they came through our Ring, and for that, an entire hive ship leveled every city on the planet. Fewer than 300 of my people still live. Is Sheppard responsible for that as well? Did he wake that hive? My world was destroyed over ten years ago.”

He paused, and John imagined him looking around the room, every eye following him. “The same could be said of Teyla’s world—Old Athos. Its continents were filled with the scattered remains of once great cities, destroyed by the Wraith over the centuries. Her people had been reduced to little more than nomadic clans, moving from camp to camp in order to survive.

“The Wraith have been here for thousands of years. If they weren’t awake now, they would have been soon enough, and they will kill and feed just like they always do. Worlds have tried to fight them for as long as they’ve been around, and no one has been successful. Not even the Ancestors. Would you hold Sheppard to a higher standard than the Ring Builders?”

“But you do not deny that in this case, Sheppard killed the Queen who pulled all hive ships out of hibernation," Slick interrupted. "Had he not done that, most hive ships would still be dormant. So many would still be alive."

"Maybe they would be alive, maybe not. How long do the hives usually stay dormant? Thirty years? Forty years? Generations? Do any of us really know? Just because one world has not seen a culling for years doesn’t mean that the Wraith aren’t alive and active elsewhere.”

His voice had risen, resonating in the room, and John heard him step out in front of the table. “How many of you have been on a hive ship and lived to tell of it?” There was a pause as he gave people a moment to consider the question. “Sheppard has. I have. The Wraith don’t stop. They don’t change. They keep coming year after year, generation after generation, century after century. The Wraith arrived on Athos and took Sheppard’s people. Yes, he went after them. Yes, he killed the Queen, who would have killed him had he not acted. How many of you wouldn’t have done the same thing? If you had to choose in that moment, between your own life or the life of a Wraith, wouldn’t you try to save yourself?”

“His actions may have stemmed from self-defense, but they woke every hive in the galaxy," Shiana called out, and John noted the blandness in her voice, a sharp contrast to the high-pitched wail of earlier. Her hold on her emotions was swinging from one extreme to the other, making him wonder if the doctor who'd butchered him was giving her something as well. The thought of him drugging the woman intent on killing him buoyed him for half a second, then a muscle twitched and a burst of pain caused his breathing rhythm to stumble. He bit his lip, stifling a groan.

“A fact you only know because he killed the Queen and woke the Wraith. Sheppard had been in this galaxy for only days before this happened. He’d known of the Wraith for less time than that. We’ve grown up with the Wraith for thousands of years and didn’t know that killing one of them could wake all of them.”

Ronon's emotions bled through, anger giving them a sharp edge. For a moment, he'd sounded almost eloquent and so very un-Ronon-like, but John knew this tone. The judges might have thought they were playing a great joke on him by putting Ronon in charge of his defense, but he had utter faith in his friend's ability to do whatever it took to protect him. He smiled, holding it for a half second before the pain forced his attention back to his breathing.

“What do worlds do when the Wraith arrive?” Ronon asked, lowering his voice and forcing everyone in the room to strain to hear him. “What do most people do when they know the Wraith are coming to cull?”

“We have a series of underground tunnels near most of our towns and villages," someone answered. A woman, sitting on the dais with Slick and Shiana. John didn't know which one she was, but she must be one of the judges. "We hide there until the Wraith have left.”

“We go to the catacombs of our ancient cities,” someone else replied, an old man from the sound of it, sitting close to Shiana.

“You run,” Ronon clarified. “You hide.”

“Yes,” the old man said. “What else are we supposed to do?”

“Would you have us all fight the Wraith?” Slick cut in.

Ronon ignored him. “Most people run from the Wraith, right?”

There was a murmur of consent behind him, and John found himself caught up in what Ronon was saying. Where was he going with this? Of course, they hid from the Wraith. Everyone ran as far away from the Wraith as possible.

“And what happens to those who are not quick enough? What happens to those who get caught?”

“They are culled, fed upon, and killed by the Wraith,” the woman from before answered, spitting the words out in disgust.

“Where is their trial?”

No one responded, and John heard Ronon moving around in front of him again. The people behind were completely still. Not even a chair creaked as they waited for him to continue.

“If someone runs from the Wraith, allowing another to die so that he can escape, is he not responsible for that other man’s death? You talk of Sheppard’s actions leading to the deaths of millions of people. When someone’s world is being culled and they run when they could stay and fight and possibly kill a Wraith, are they not then also responsible for the deaths that the Wraith they could have killed later inflict?”

John was nodding, mentally cheering on his friend as he got what he was saying.

“And what about the people who do fight, like Sateda? Three hundred of my people escaped, but the Wraith destroyed the rest of my world because we made the opposite decision. We stood up to them and fought. Should the leaders who made that decision be held accountable for the deaths on my world? Or should it be the fighters? Their actions led the Wraith to cull my world and leave no survivors.”

“That is an internal matter, affecting the people of one world—” Slick started.

“How do you know that?” Ronon roared back. “How do you know when people on one world hide from the Wraith and survive, that that doesn’t cause them to go to another world and cull those people? If you’re going to hold one man responsible for the deaths caused by the Wraith, then hold us all responsible. Punish all of us.”

Ronon’s voice echoed. John felt his heart pounding in his chest in response, and he forced himself to slow his breathing. He could get through this; he could survive, maybe even win the trial. A small wave of guilt surged to the surface but he shoved it back, out of his mind. He had a lot of guilt about a lot of things, but he would not let these people add to it. He would not give into their accusations—one man was not responsible for two million deaths, especially deaths inflicted by the Wraith and the Asurans and any number of other enemies out there.

Fueled by adrenaline, he blinked open his eyes, studying the reactions of the judges. Most of them were watching Ronon as he moved back to his table, their faces pensive. A few others were looking down at their feet. Slick was frowning, and Shiana's face had taken up its expression of vacant insanity again.

Ronon was back at his table, and damn if he didn't sound like a lawyer. John knew he watched a lot of Earth television, but apparently the man had been streamlining legal dramas.

“The Wraith are awake,” his friend said. “Too early—their human herds are too small to sustain them, which means they’re at their weakest point since perhaps the time of the Ancestors. They’re fighting each other over limited resources. If ever there was a time for us to come together as a united front against the Wraith, it is now. We have a chance _now_ to rid future generations of this scourge, in no small part because of Sheppard’s actions.”

The judges were looking between each other and Ronon. A few glanced his way then immediately looked down. John let his eyes slide closed, proud of his teammate.

“Do you have anything else you’d like to add?” Slick asked a moment later.

The lawyerly manner disappeared, and in very Ronon-like fashion, he answered, “I’m done. Yield. Whatever.”

 

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

The left branch had turned out to be a dead end, forcing them back to the split and down the right branch. It had curved toward the center of the mountain, but then it had straightened out. They'd ended up in a large, bustling cavern, people rushing every which direction. Ramps curled around the edge of the walls, leading up higher into the mountain, openings breaking off into an endless spider web of tunnel streets. They'd moved swiftly through the crowds, blending into the chaos, and slipped into a tunnel on the other side.

Their new tunnel was a lot wider and much more crowded. There were soldiers here, but none of them showed any particular interest in Ronon and his team. Civilians ran back and forth, calling out to friends and murmuring in groups as they tried to figure out what was going on.

"What's wrong with your friend?" a rough voice asked.

Ronon glanced over to see a man as tall as him poke his head out of a curtained doorway. His eyes raked over Sheppard hanging between Beckett and McKay in their two-man carry hold, then narrowed in suspicion. Ronon tightened his grip on his gun, focusing his aggression on the man in front of him. With his other hand, he reached for the knife he'd moved to his pocket, ready to fight. The stranger was beefy and pale, and looked like he'd handled himself more than once in rough, late night bar brawls.

Before Ronon could do anything, the man scowled and looked down at his feet. "I told you to get back into your room. Your mother would whip my hide if she knew you were poking your head out into the street right now."

A small, impish face grinned up at Ronon, unfazed by the irritation she was causing in her father. The large man picked the child up in one hand, tucking her under his arm before turning his attention back to the group. Ronon had loosened his grip on his weapons at the sight of the child, but they couldn't risk leaving the man to raise an alarm. They had to tell him something to keep him from running to the authorities.

"Our friend is sick," Beckett piped up. "Very sick. We were trying to get him to help when… all of this happened." He waved vaguely around him.

The man's face cleared, giving them a quick nod. "You'll never get your doctor to your house in this mess," he said. "I hear Tenvel has set up shop at his place. Two levels up, take the blue arrowed path toward the furnaces."

"Thanks," Ronon said quickly, before any of the others asked for clarification. They had to let this man think they were from Daet—maybe not this exact neighborhood of tunnels, but familiar enough with it that his directions weren't utterly confusing.

The child hanging from his arm squawked and tried to wriggle her way out of her father's grasp, distracting the man's attention again. He disappeared behind the curtained doorway and Ronon took the opportunity to walk fast, putting as much distance between them as he could. The others followed, and Ronon cringed at the strangled yelp from Sheppard.

"Ronon, we need to stop again," Beckett hissed at them. They'd hit a wide intersection, floods of people moving in all directions.

He glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. "We can't stop here. We stand out too much," he muttered back. Sheppard sagged deeper into the doctor's and McKay's hands.

 _Damn it!_ Ronon glanced around, looking for somewhere out of the way where they could rest for a moment and not draw attention to themselves.

"Here!" Teyla called out. She was a dozen feet behind them and point to a narrow alley off the main stretch. Beckett and McKay moved automatically, Sheppard sinking deeper into their arms. His legs were limp and swinging as they walked, and Ronon noticed for the first time that his boots and socks were gone.

Teyla weaved down the narrow tunnel, around empty stalls and past still curtains. A couple of people jogged out, heading in the other direction and shooting the group confused glances, but they didn't stop to question what Ronon and his team were doing. A hundred feet in, she drew up, raising her weapon and peering carefully into a door. She stepped back a moment later and signaled everyone inside.

They moved fast, Beckett and McKay gently setting Sheppard on the floor in the back. This room was smaller than the storage room they'd held up in, little more than a large closet. It was just wide enough for Sheppard to lie down in. McKay and Teyla pulled out flashlights, while Ronon tugged on the curtain door and closed them in. The alley outside was quiet, and he allowed himself a moment to take a deep breath and wrangle his frustration at their situation under control.

"Ah, hell," Beckett cursed under his breath. The flashlights bobbed then steadied on Sheppard’s chest, where the doctor had pulled up the shirt. Ronon grimaced at the bright red splotches bleeding through the white bandage.

A second later, he'd peeled back the bandage and was frowning. Two of the sutures had ripped, and the incision was beginning to split.

"I'm going to be sick," McKay said, turning away and slapping a hand over his mouth.

"I was afraid of this," Beckett said.

"Can we remove the device, if the wound is opening anyway?" Teyla looked between Sheppard and Beckett, the set of her jaw rigid. There were not very many things that drove her to this level of fury, and Ronon was glad she was on their side for this fight.

Beckett was shaking his head. "I'd rather not—not without knowing exactly how deep it is and how much longer we're going to be running around down here."

The comment was not directed at Ronon in any way, but he flinched nonetheless. They were depending on him to lead them out; Sheppard was depending on him to save his life.

"It could be attached to one or more of his internal organs, and this room is far from sanitary, not to mention dark. I will not do anything that's not absolutely necessary."

Necessities. Basics. That's what they needed. A map, a direction, an exit. Non-native Pegasus people—or in other words, anyone from Atlantis—had initially been forbidden from entering the fortress. McKay and Beckett had gotten in on technicalities, but just because there were no Marines inside the mountain didn't mean Woolsey had left them out to dry. Ronon knew that three jumpers at least were hovering outside, waiting for a signal to swoop in and get them out of there.

Beckett was bending over Sheppard now, doing something Ronon couldn't see. He ducked his head out into the hallway, letting the others worry about Sheppard's medical condition. He scanned each direction and saw no threats heading their way. If they reached an exit, the jumpers would be in emergency mode, especially after the explosions McKay had set. The rulers of Daet had tried to prevent an overwhelming force from coming in and rescuing Sheppard, but they couldn’t stop the jumpers from hovering outside, waiting to swoop in at the first opportunity to get their people off the planet.

The hope had been that the trial would be fair, that they could argue Sheppard's innocence persuasively, but it had been a ruse from the beginning. Ronon saw that now. He punched the wall just hard enough to make his knuckles pop, then ground his fist into the stone. Some of the judges had seemed fair, and much of the Pegasus natives had acted genuinely interested in hearing both sides. He was sure he'd convinced many of them in the end, but the ones who held sway in that court had made their decision from the beginning and weren't interested in right or wrong, innocent or guilty. They'd wanted power—power over the Coalition Council, and thus power over much of the human civilizations of Pegasus. If only they'd known that from the beginning.

"Shine your flashlight over here, Rodney," Beckett instructed. McKay complied, lighting up Beckett's bag as the doctor dug through it. "I need more supplies than I have. This isn't going to be enough for much longer."

Ronon took a deep breath, reaching a decision. "You guys stay here, give Sheppard a chance to rest a few minutes."

Teyla was up on her feet immediately. "What are you planning?"

"Recon. We need to know more than we do. We can't just run around this entire city hoping to hit an exit. Sheppard won't survive that."

"What about the guards?" McKay asked, flipping his light up and shining it on Ronon's chest.

"Most of them are heading to the blast sites. We can't get out that way anyway. We need another exit, and hopefully one that's far enough away from the courtroom that it won't be heavily guarded."

"And then what?"

Teyla was nodding. "The jumpers are outside. They will have picked up on the explosions and be actively scanning for us."

"The sooner we get outside, the faster they find us and get us to the gate," McKay finished.

A cry pierced the air, and Sheppard flailed, kicking his legs and pounding his left fist into the ground.

"Easy, John," Beckett soothed. "Hold on, lad." He glanced up. "Teyla, there's a clean cloth and a water bottle in my bag. Let's see if we can clean him up a bit. It won't do much, but it might help him feel a little better."

"D-doc…"

"We're here, John." Beckett grabbed onto his thrashing hand, clasping in both of his.

"H'rtsss… god, it hurts…please…"

Teyla moved fast, soaking the cloth then scooting in around McKay to kneel by Sheppard's head. Ronon watched mesmerized for a moment as the three of them worked to comfort their team leader. There was little they could do. Sheppard turned his face into Teyla's cloth, panting, while McKay took over for Beckett, grabbing onto Sheppard's hand and giving him something to anchor to. Beckett returned to caring for the wound, his gentle hands still causing Sheppard to jerk and moan as he worked on closing up the incision.

Without another word, Ronon slipped out into alley. The best thing he could do—the only thing, really—was to find their exit, and to do that he needed to talk to people, stake out some of the tunnels and get a handle on the unintelligible signs. He jogged down the empty alleyway and merged back into the crowds of the larger street tunnel.

Most people were heading in one direction, but Ronon had to believe it led deeper into the mountain. After a couple of explosions and no information, the instinct would be to head to safety, and safety was as far from the outside world as possible in this place. He crossed a busy intersection, pushing through the crowds of people, then hugged the walls on the other side when he found himself fighting against the flow. A few people shot him dirty looks, but most kept rigid stares on the intersection and the flood of people all heading in the same direction.

A hand grabbed his arm as he crossed a narrow alley, and he stepped into it, spinning and bringing a fist up in self-defense. The hand drew back immediately and he heard footsteps backing up.

"Don't hurt me, please," a man begged. An older man, from the sound of it.

Ronon kept his weapon leveled at the shadows. "Who's there?"

"Ronon," another voice called out from deeper in the alley.

He knew that person. "Halling?"

The tall Athosian was striding toward him, and he stepped out of the shadows enough for Ronon to get a good look at him. He had a bruise purpling on his cheek, but otherwise looked healthy, despite his grim expression. He beckoned Ronon into the alley, glancing up and down the busy tunnel street as he pulled him in.

"What are you doing here?" Ronon was relieved to see a friend, but his heart was pounding with adrenaline still and he blinked rapidly, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were three or four other people in the alley with them, including the old man who'd grabbed him.

"We were not sure we would find you again after the battle in the courtroom. The explosions set everyone into a running panic."

"Sorry about that," he muttered.

Halling shook his head. "It worked well enough as a distraction." He glanced behind Ronon, worry turning the corners of his mouth down. "Are you not with the others?"

"I was. We had to stop so Beckett could treat Sheppard."

"How is the colonel?" the old man asked.

Ronon's eyes finally adjusted and he recognized him. _Orin,_ he remembered. Teyla had worked tirelessly as soon as they’d heard of the trial, recruiting allies to stand as witness for Sheppard. Orin had been a friend from early on, but it had been before Ronon had joined Atlantis and he didn't know the details of the man's history with the Lanteans. He nodded in greeting at the man. "Not good. We need an exit. We've got jumpers outside waiting to pick us up, but Sheppard's in bad shape. He's…"

He paused, biting his lip, but held back from telling them about the bomb. The wide-eyed stares he was already getting from everyone other than Halling told him these people were scared enough. They were civilians, not fighters, drawn into this battle because of their willingness to stand up for Sheppard and Atlantis.

"We need to get him back to Atlantis as soon as possible," he said instead.

Halling gripped Ronon's arm. "We will do what we can."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

John dreamed of a roller coaster, the old wood ones he used to ride at fairs as a kid. The thrill of cresting each hill became lost in the drop as he flew through a thousand tiny stars, the pinpoints of light peppering his skin like gravel. At the top of one hill, he glanced back to see Shiana climbing toward him, holding a machete knife in one hand and a small thumb-drive-shaped device in the other. The detonator to a bomb. John knew the bomb was somewhere along the twisting tracks of the roller coaster in a way that was only possible in dreams, and knew that if he didn't stop Shiana or defuse the bomb, he was a dead man. As the coaster whipped out into a wide curve, he pushed against the bar pinning him to the cart and digging into his gut. In the distance, a cloud of dust behind him, Ronon rode toward the carnival ride on a horse, a long sword swinging at his side. He was wearing the heavy coat and pants of a fireman about to charge into a burning inferno, his face set in furious determination.

The coaster dipped, throwing John backward, then twisted and shot forward. Ronon disappeared from sight but he could feel Shiana creeping closer. He jammed his hands under the bar, struggling to free himself. His skin split just below his breastbone, spilling warm blood all down his stomach and into his lap. As the cart climbed another hill, the entire ride swayed and creaked, sending a jolt of fear through him.

"You will pay for the death of my people, Sheppard!" Shiana screamed behind him, her words loud and clear despite the wind whistling around them.

The coaster dropped again, plunging almost vertically into pitch black. He opened his mouth to scream, choking on the air gusting past him instead. Abruptly, the cart changed direction, popping out of the shadows and back into sunlight just as John managed to push the restraint bar away from him. The tracks veered suddenly to the right, and John shot free of the ride, hitting hard, dusty ground and rolling too fast to get his bearings.

"Sheppard!" Shiana screamed behind him.

He rolled to a stop, flat on his back, a thousand knives stabbing into him. He was coated in blood, his chest hitching with every breath. He squinted up into blue skies when a shadow fell across him, and he saw Ronon on his horse, holding a broadsword and scratching at the collar of his fireman's coat.

"Sheppard," his friend said. The horse snorted and shook its mane. A beautiful, sleek-looking Palomino.

He opened his mouth to reply, and coughed instead on dry dust.

"Sheppard?"

John gasped, waking up quickly. He had a moment to notice he was in the cage in the courtroom, arms tied to the bench and a band around his chest holding him up. An invisible blade was sawing though his chest and stomach, back and forth over the incision, and he imagined raw nerve endings curdling as they were exposed to fresh air. He sucked in a deep breath, but that only amplified the pain.

"Sheppard," a voice called out, low and rough.

Sweat was pouring from his face. He knew that voice; it was the same one he'd heard in his dream.

"R'nn?" His voice was garbled, barely audible. He swallowed, closing his eyes and taking another slow breath, pushing back the assault on his body.

"Right here, buddy," Ronon said. A hand patted John on the shoulder, strong and confident. "Hang on."

He vaguely recalled the trial ending the day before and being dragged from the cage by indifferent guards, thrown into a cell where he could finally curl up around the agony in his gut. They'd given him food and water, but he'd had no strength to drink and no appetite to eat. The rest was a haze. He must have fallen asleep, been dragged back to court and stuffed into the cage again. His right arm was numb—a relief on the one hand, a niggling worry on the other. It was broken; it should hurt. He tried to squeeze his hand into a fist but his fingers sat limp next to his leg, unresponsive.

"The rules were clear on this matter!" Slick yelled from the dais, drawing John's attention to him. He'd been given no drugs today that he remembered, or if he had, they'd worn off before the trial could start.

"The rules state that this court is open to _all_ native peoples of this galaxy," a thick-accented voice answered. _Carson?_ "There are a number of people in the audience as we speak from at least a dozen different worlds."

"You are the Atlantis healer," Slick said, his dark hair combed straight back and clinging to his head. "You may travel widely among this galaxy, but you were not born here. You are from… Earth, is it? Not Pegasus."

"I beg to differ," Carson answered. John lifted his head to look to his left, where Ronon had defended him the day before. Carson stood in front of the table, his hands out in front of him as he spoke. "A man known as Carson Beckett was born on Earth, yes. He came to this galaxy and lived for a number of years on Atlantis. And then he was killed. I am not that man. I look like him, I have his memories and abilities, but I was 'born' a little over a year ago, here in this galaxy—the result of a cloning experiment carried out by the Wraith we call Michael."

"Is this true?" a woman whispered on the dais, the judges ducking their heads to confer. There was a rustle of people behind him, and John sensed rather than saw that the crowd today was much bigger than it had been.

"We have only your word on this matter," Slick said, scowling. "And we know from past experience that Atlanteans will say anything to manipulate a situation and get their way."

The effort of holding up his head was overwhelming, and John let it slide back against the bars. He closed his eyes, willing the nightmare to end. He'd spent most of the day before in a pain-free, drug-induced stupor—a state he wouldn't mind returning to at the moment.

A scraping chair signaled that someone was standing up in the audience behind John, and the murmur of the crowd grew quiet. "May I address the judges?"

"Who are you?" Slick asked.

"I am Halling, leader of the Athosian people. My people have long been traders in this galaxy and are known to many."

"I've heard of Athos," Slick said with a jerk of his head.

"Fair traders, Athosians," someone in the audience whispered, loud enough for many people to hear and to gain a rumble of consent.

"What have you to say to this court? If it does not relate to the current matter—"

"It does," Halling called out, his voice sharp and serious. John had always known him as a gentle giant, but he had changed in the last year—harder, rougher, withdrawn. Polite to John, but rarely smiling or relaxing, always scanning around him for unseen dangers.

That edge was showing now. John could hear the steel in his voice. He scanned the judges, seeing their attention focused on the tall Athosian and noticed for the first time that Shiana wasn't there. Her chair was empty, but the detonator box sat on the table unattended.

"As some of you may know, my people were also held prisoner by Michael and experimented upon just like Doctor Beckett."

"You were a prisoner with him?"

"Not at the same place, no. But I remember when the original Doctor Beckett was killed. I have no doubt of that fact, and during my time as a prisoner, I heard of the clone that was created with the doctor's memories and skills and appearance. His existence came to be in Pegasus, and I will testify—as will any of my people—that he is now a native of this galaxy."

A growing hum of many voices broke out, both from the judges and the audience. Shouts for and against allowing Carson into the trial rang out, causing the judges to shoot alarmed looks at each other and the guards that John could see to straighten and tighten their grips on their handguns. At the sound of scraping chairs, John pictured the people behind him standing up and growing more adamant regarding their position.

He watched the judges, focusing on the one near the end who sat next to Shiana's empty chair. The man seemed oblivious to the detonator. If ever there was a time to grab it, it was now. Ronon's hand was still on his shoulder, and John sat up, twisting toward him and intending to tell him to grab the switchbox that could end his life.

Pain flashed through his gut, hot and sharp. He collapsed back to the bars with a cry, but now that the nerves had been jumpstarted, little flames danced along his torso with sadistic glee. He gasped in surprise, and the little flames merged into an inferno, drilling into his chest and stomach. He cried out, feeling Ronon's hand tighten on his shoulder. He was talking to him, his breath cool against his cheek, but any coherent sounds were drowned out by the roar of the fire inside him.

Oxygen cut out, and John threw his head back painfully against the bars, trying to breathe but unable to unlock his jaw. He felt moisture trickle down his face—either tears or sweat, he had no idea which. Distantly, he saw the judges standing, the guards surging forward, Carson moving toward his cage and reaching out a hand. His struggle for air kindled the flames slicing through him. As black dots flooded his vision, he saw Shiana return to her seat and snatch up the detonator box.

"John?"

The voice was a soft echo in his head. He groaned, wincing when dormant nerves began to burn.

"John, lad? Try not to move."

"Carson?"

"Aye."

"There will be no conversing with the prisoner!" Slick screamed out, jarring John out of his fugue.

It took a monumental effort for him to open his eyes, but he eventually managed it. He was in the cage, still tied up. Some of the judges were glaring at him, others avoiding looking at him completely. He had a mask over his mouth and nose and cool, stale hair brushed against his lips.

"Wha'?" he mumbled. He twisted his head a couple of inches, then froze when the movement pulled at the wound in his gut. A hand patted his shoulder, another held his left forearm. The pinching sensation of an IV in his left arm finally wormed its way up to his brain.

"Wish I could do more for you," Carson whispered, squeezing John's arm and shoulder through the bars.

"We wish to call forward a witness against Colonel Sheppard in the charge of creating the Hoffan Plague that has decimated worlds the galaxy over," a voice rang out. It was vaguely familiar, and John turned his head to the right enough to see the man with the grayish-blond ponytail. The prosecutor, if this was a normal court at home.

He huffed out a laugh, part disgust and part desperation. If this was a court back home, his insides wouldn't be burning alive and one of the judges wouldn't be tapping playfully against the detonator to a bomb she'd planted in the defendant's body. He looked over at her, and saw that she was watching him closely. A noise at the back drew everyone else's attention as someone made their way to the prosecutor's table.

Shiana and Slick exchanged a glance, Slick narrowing his eyes and jerking his chin down. Shiana scowled back at him, but she set the detonator down and folded her arms. John's heart began to thump wildly in his chest. They knew each other—they were in on it together. His admittedly drugged impression of the other judges made him think they were here honestly, that they wanted an actual accounting of what had happened, but with Slick leading the court and Shiana holding the detonator, John had little chance of coming out of the trial alive.

The prosecutor's witness stepped in front of the judges, and John flinched at the sight. Brown pants, brown vest, Amish beard. The doctor who'd stuck the bomb in him in the first place. Carson was pressing his hand against John's forehead through the bars, the cage hampering his abilities to treat him.

"State your name," Slick said.

"I am Jobin Cresha, medical professional, and formally of the planet Hoff."

Carson's grip on John's arm tightened reflexively, and John heard his soft, sharp inhale. Beads of sweat dripped down the side of John's face, irritating the skin. He turned his head slowly toward Carson, biting back grunts of pain. He had to tell them who this doctor was, what he had done, what Shiana held in her hand. It wasn't just a threat to him. It was a threat to anyone close to him.

"Be still, John," Carson hissed.

John squirmed, trying to turn more toward Carson to talk to him. He saw Ronon sitting at the defense table, looking at him in concern. In the first row behind him, Teyla, Halling, and a few other recognizable faces were leaning forward, heads snapping between the new witness, the judges, and John's cage.

"B-buh…" he started, but an explosion of agony ripped through his gut and took his breath away. He closed his eyes, willing himself to breathe through it. Carson's hand tightened its grip and Slick was yelling again, waving an arm toward John.

"Bomb," he ground out. He could just see Carson's face out of the corner of his eye. "Bomb," he said again, more clearly, and the doctor's eyebrow shot up in surprise.

Then a sharp jab in his shoulder from the other side halted anything else he was planning on saying. He jerked his head up, feeling the instant sweep of lethargy. His shoulder, then his chest tingled, and the pain rolling through him faded. He heard more yelling, but his head dropped down of its own accord, and the last thing he saw as his vision faded was a spot of red soaking through his shirt.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Ronon led the others back to their alleyway hideout, establishing a meeting point before they split off again in search of an exit. Sheppard was sleeping fitfully, but his pained grunts and twitching were reassuring in a way that made Ronon feel guilty. They hurt Sheppard, but they let everyone else know he was still alive. Beckett had another IV going, using the last of the saline solutions in his bag, and he sat against the wall, holding his patient's left wrist at the pulse point in fatigue.

McKay and Teyla disappeared soon after he returned, but they came back with a few blankets and a small cart. Sheppard's legs would hang off the back and his head would be propped up on the front, but at least it would be more comfortable. And easier on Beckett and McKay. The doctor breathed out a relieved 'thank you' before fussing with Sheppard again, checking the bandage and scowling at the fever raging through the man's body.

Ronon was getting ready to go out and hunt for an exit himself when two of Halling's group returned. He recognized one of them—Willa, one of Lucius' ex-wives. The other was a young man with a painted face, and the two stayed close to each other, brushing each other’s arms and hands as they reported what they'd found.

"We've found a possible exit," Willa stated. "Keras spoke to the tavern keeper not far from here, and many of the patrons were concerned with the waterways."

"Waterways?" Ronon asked.

"Streams and rivers under the main levels of this city," the young man—Keras—replied. "They lead out into the woods around the mountains, some carrying the cities refuse and waste out and some carrying fresh water in. There are paths along these waterways, and gates to the outside that are minimally guarded most of the time."

"That's good," McKay said. "Right? That's good news?"

Ronon nodded, his hope growing. "Where are the waterways?"

Willa gestured outside. "We were given vague directions, but we did not want to press too much and arouse suspicion. We told them we were here for the trial and had taken the afternoon to wander through the city when the first explosions went off."

"They had no knowledge of a trial," Keras added, "but they pressed us for any information on the explosions. Half of them were convinced it was a Wraith attack."

"Sorry," McKay muttered, more to himself than anything.

Ronon shot him a small smile then rubbed his face. The waterways sounded promising, but Halling and a couple of the others still hadn't returned. He squatted down, drawing out a crude map on the stone floor of their current location and the directions Keras and Willa had received. By the time the rest of Halling's group had returned, he had a rough idea of where they needed to go.

Orin, Halling, and the others were less successful, with most people telling them to wait out the emergency for a couple of days. Once the panic settled, all offworlders would be allowed to exit the main gates—assuming they were still standing after McKay's handiwork—to return to the Ring and home.

"Waterways it is," he announced. "Good work," he said, giving the two young people a nod of approval. They beamed with pride, and had the situation been a little less grave, he might have laughed at the reaction. He didn't know Keras at all, and he had only briefly met Willa. Why they wanted his approval, he did not know.

"That's it for the saline," Beckett said. He pulled out a syringe and injected its contents into the IV, waited a moment, then removed the IV needle and tossed everything into a red plastic bag. "And that's the last of the antibiotics I have on me."

Sheppard was awake but staring listlessly at the wall, barely reacting to Teyla's attempts to cool his forehead with a damp cloth.

"He ready to move?" Ronon asked.

"Aye, as ready as ever."

"Halling, everyone—thank you for your help," Teyla said, standing up to face them. "I asked you to stand in Colonel Sheppard's defense, but you have had to do much more than that today."

"I am alive today because of Colonel Sheppard, as are many of my people," Keras said.

"As am I and my family," Orin added.

"The people of Atlantis have done much to help all of us," Willa said. "There has been much pain and suffering in this galaxy, and the fault does not lie on one man's shoulders. When Teyla came asking for our support, it was not a difficult decision for me to make."

At a signal from Beckett, McKay pushed the cart forward. Together, the group of them lifted Sheppard up into it. It was just wide enough to hold Sheppard comfortably—or as comfortably as was possible. McKay had padded the bottom with stolen blankets, and Ronon bit back the cry of frustration that rose up in his chest with Sheppard's pained whimpers. As soon as Sheppard was in the cart, he settled down, his eyes fluttering closed.

Beckett grabbed his wrist, then pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. "He's holding on still. I suggest we get moving soon, however." He continued to fuss, pulling a blanket over Sheppard's overhanging legs as well as his chest, then pushing the covers on his chest down to his waist.

Ronon watched as McKay messed with the locking mechanism on the cart's wheel. Beckett was hovering, his face pinched in worry, as Sheppard's supporters mumbled encouragement and prepared to head back out into the tunnel streets. If Sheppard had been awake, he would have been pissed and embarrassed at all the attention.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Halling pull Teyla toward the door. They stepped out into the alleyway, and Ronon caught a glimpse through a part in the curtain doorway of Halling leaning forward, holding Teyla's arms and pressing his forehead against hers. He looked away, embarrassed to have intruded on a private moment between the two Athosians. His hearing was too sharp, however, and his curiosity too high to stop him from listening in on their whispered conversation.

"I need to apologize to you, Teyla, and perhaps to Colonel Sheppard as well."

"Why? You have done noth—"

"When you asked for my help in this trial, there was a part of me that did not want to get involved. I understand too well the need to see someone pay for suffering; I have spent many nights wishing that what happened to our people had not, that the one who caused such pain would pay for his actions."

"I understand that as well, but surely you did not blame John for it. He should not pay for all the pain the peoples of this galaxy have suffered, for the deaths and misery caused by the Wraith, or the Asurans, or Michael." There was a bite to her tone, and Ronon imagined her stepping back to glare up at Halling. The anger, he knew, had more to do with what had been done to John than it did with Halling.

The tall Athosian's voice was low and gravelly, and Ronon bit his lip, feeling a surge of sympathy for what he and his people had gone through. "Of course not, but I was slow in coming to that conclusion. Our people have suffered much in the last five years. We have lost three homes. We have been culled, kidnapped, tortured, experimented upon. We have always lived under the shadow of the Wraith, but the suffering our people have undergone in the last several years…"

His voice trailed off, and he sighed deeply.

"My first thought when you came to me was if Atlantis had not come to our world that night, would our villages have been destroyed by the Wraith? Would we have been forced from our ancestral home to live in the shadow of the great city, only to be cast out and forced to start anew on a different world? Would we have been kidnapped and tortured and experimented upon by Michael after that if we had not been so closely associated with Colonel Sheppard and his people? Would my son be living in darkness, plagued by nightmares, barely able to function after what was done to him?"

Ronon's hands had curled into fists, and his emotions swirled inside him. He understood where Halling was coming from, but to sympathize with that position felt like a betrayal to Sheppard and the people who had saved Ronon from a probably very short life running from the Wraith. He focused his attention on his team leader, taking in the ashen face, fading bruises, and limp body in the cart. Atlantis had made mistakes, but they'd tried to rectify them where they could.

"Halling, I do not know what to say." Teyla sounded shocked and hurt, and as conflicted as Ronon felt.

"Say nothing, dear friend. Our people are barely recovering, and I was loathe to thrust us into the middle of this political fight, while we are still vulnerable and regaining our strength."

"But—"

Halling laughed suddenly. "I am trying to apologize, Teyla. Let me finish. You were right—one man does not bear responsibility for all the suffering of this galaxy. While I understand the need to blame someone or something, I regret that I considered not standing up for John Sheppard at all. My feelings on this matter are complicated, but I should have given you my support immediately. No matter what has happened to us, and what role Atlantis may have played in that, I cannot hold a single man responsible for the suffering of this galaxy. It would be in poor character for me to do nothing while yet another suffers. I cannot speak for the Athosian people as a whole, and I am not sure I can defend every action Atlantis has taken, but I can and will always speak to Colonel Sheppard’s character, his good heart, and the care he has taken to help us—help me—whenever possible. I don’t know if this will always be enough, but please do not hesitate to ask me to stand by the colonel as a friend.”

Through the curtain, Ronon saw Teyla's face twist with emotion. She grabbed Halling's arms again and pulled him down so their foreheads could meet again in the traditional Athosian gesture.

"We ready?" McKay asked, drawing Ronon's attention back to the people in the room.

He palmed his weapon, making sure his knife was loose in his pocket in case he needed quick access.

"Let's go," he announced, raising his voice enough to let Teyla and Halling outside know that they would soon be filing out into the alleyway. Keras and McKay grabbed the handles of the cart and wheeled it toward the exit, while the others followed silently behind.

Ronon let them past, scanned the room to make sure they'd grabbed everything they needed, then ducked out into the alley. Teyla and Halling nodded at him, taking positions behind the group. Ronon slipped up to the front and led them back out into the tunnel streets, heading toward the nearest waterway and their best hope for an exit.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

 **Part 3**

John blinked, feeling like his eyes had been opened for a while and yet he'd just woken up. He heard a rumble of voices around, but it took another long moment for him to realize he was still a captive, still at the center of a trial with no clue how his defense was going.

"Not 'Lantis," he mumbled. Something had convinced his half-asleep brain that he was actually in Atlantis. The floaty feeling of drugs in his blood, maybe. Or the lack of feeling just beneath the surface of his skin.

"No, I'm afraid not, lad," Carson whispered.

Or that. John gave a half grin, smelling the doctor's soap and cologne. It wasn't something he'd probably consciously noticed before, but the lack of pain and Carson's presence were usually telltale signs that he was on the good stuff in the infirmary.

This time, however, he was still chained to his cage, his broken arm still tied to the bench, and a band still wrapped around his torso and fastened behind him. His left arm was sporting an IV, and an oxygen mask still sat on his face.

"What’s… going on?" he whispered through the mask.

Carson leaned forward bringing his mouth as close to John's ear as he could through the bars. "Ronon and Halling were able to convince the judges that I have a right to be here to testify on your behalf concerning the Hoffan plague and Michael. When they saw how ill you were, the judges finally allowed me to treat you."

“Finally?”

"Aye. There was quite an argument, mostly between the lead judge in the center seat—"

"Slick."

"Excuse me?"

John nodded vaguely toward the judges. "Calling him Slick… in my head."

"As good a name as any. He and the dark-haired woman at the end refused vehemently at first. They didn't want anyone near you, said we would pull some trick. Some of the other judges disagreed, and they all adjourned to another room, presumably to talk it over. When they came back, they said I could treat you as long as I did not attempt to get you out of this damned cage."

"Had the IV before, right?"

"Aye, you did. I managed to start you on fluids and get a mask on you before the judges could say otherwise."

The prosecutor to his right moved to the front of the room, waving his arms as he spoke. A wave of dizziness rushed over John, and he blinked at the sudden sensation of a sitting on a boat in a storm. The prosecutor's voice wavered in an out, another man throwing in an incoherent string of words during the pauses. It took several minutes for John to figure out that the prosecutor was questioning someone. He inched his head to the side and saw the bomb doctor's face blur, sharpen, then blur again.

"Tell me what you're feeling, " Carson whispered. "They said you grew sick quickly, soon after arriving here, but they don't know what's wrong."

John chuckled, a breathless huff of desperation muted by the plastic oxygen mask. "Not sick. They know…" he ground out. " _He_ did it."

"Who?"

"The man… talking… doctor…"

Sound was roaring in and out, like he was standing in a wind tunnel. He felt the ground solid beneath his feet, the bench hard and flat beneath his butt, the bars digging into his back. He wasn't moving, but his stomach twisted and turned like he was, and he flashed to his dream of the roller coaster.

"He's from Hoff," Carson murmured. He shifted, leaning around the side of the cage toward the judges and witness stand.

John looked over and even through the froth of lightheadedness threatening to drown him, he saw the pain in his friend's eyes. Carson was pale, the muscles in his face rigid with stress. A court might be able to argue that this Carson had only existed for the last couple of years, but there was little difference between the clone and the real man. The pain in Carson's face as he relived the events of Hoff was evidence enough of that.

John scanned the faces of the judges, most of them reflecting a collective look of horror. He didn't need to hear what the prosecutor and witness were saying. The judges' expressions said enough. Except for Slick. His face was stony, and John sensed rather than saw that he was battling to keep as much emotion off his expression as possible. At the end of the dais, Shiana was glaring at him, open hatred on her expression. She narrowed her eyes at John's look and pointed to the detonator.

He swallowed, looking away. Carson was holding John's wrist, pressing into the pulse point. He leaned forward again, turning his head away from the judges so he could whisper directly into John's ear. "What did he do?"

"Bomb," John whispered. Would Shiana detonate the explosive if he told Carson about it? Or was that why they'd allowed the doctor into the cage—for John to tell them of the consequences for making any kind of escape? What good was a deterrence if no one knew about it? He was getting the impression that they hadn’t really thought through this whole bomb idea, and he didn’t know if that was good news or bad news for him. Probably bad news.

"You said that before. What do you mean, _bomb_?"

"Bomb," he repeated, feeling his heart rate tick up. He breathed deeply, feeling Carson's grip tighten on his wrist. Carefully, he moved his free hand up to his stomach, directly over the incision and bandage. "They cut… me…"

Carson stared at him, confused, but before he could say anything, noise erupted in the courtroom for the midday break. The Amish doctor and prosecutor were huddled near the table. Guards had closed in around them in the cage, keeping Ronon and anyone else away. The judges stood up and began filing out of the room, but Shiana made her way to the cage. She leaned forward, pressing her face through the bars.

"Go ahead, Sheppard," she hissed, just loud enough for him and Carson to hear. "If it was up to me, I'd let everyone learn the hard way why they can't take you from this mountain. But tell him what we've done to keep you here, if you wish." She shot a glance at Slick, who was talking to one of the guards near the dais. "He seems to think letting your people know will keep them honest."

She spun on her heel, her hair snapping around to the side before either John or Carson could respond. John breathed deep, watching her disappear through a side door with Slick and the last of the other judges.

"What did she mean? John, what bomb? What are you talking about?"

"The doctor," John whispered, his stomach cramping as he spoke. "Put a… bomb… in me." He flinched suddenly, realizing how much danger Carson was in just being near him. He twisted his arm out of the doctor's grasp. "Get away… you have… too dangerous…"

Carson's eyebrows had climbed, his face losing all color. He shook off John's grip easily and reached out, tentatively placing a hand over the bandage. The touch was light and gentle, but John recoiled anyway, moaning at the ripple of pain that shot out from the incision site.

"Dear Lord," Carson breathed. "You don't mean to say…"

"Bomb," John panted. "Please… too dangerous… bomb…"

"Inside you? As in, surgically implanted?"

"That doctor… cut… have to get away... Doc, leave me…" John lurched forward, straining against the band around his chest. The abrupt movement ignited the nerves along the surgical site, sending lancing pain through his chest and gut. He cried out, breathless despite the oxygen mask feeding him air. Shouts around him grew louder, and then a knife blade of pain stabbing him in the arm washed everything out.

When he woke up the second time, sound returned first. Carson was yelling at the Amish doctor, one hand on John's shoulder. John's head was hanging forward, chin on chest and a line of drool running down his chin. He willed his eyes to open, but they were glued fast, and the effort he exerted to pry them apart made his head swim.

He must have moaned. Carson's yelling cut off abruptly. Hands eased his head back, pressed into his neck, tugged at the needle in his arm. Distantly, John heard footsteps stomp away and a door slam, then a murmur of voices broke out amongst those in the audience watching the whole scene.

"Doc!" Ronon yelled out. John heard him move close.

Carson was pressing John’s forehead back, holding it steady until it was resting in the space between the bars at his back. He groaned at the sensation of water sloshing back and forth inside his cranium and squeezed his eyes closed.

"John? Are you awake? Open your eyes for me."

A moment later, fingers pried his lids open anyway, flashing a light in his face and making him flinch. Too bright. Too fast. He licked his lips, feeling the hiss of air from the mask and the muted pinch of the IV in the crook of his arm. When something pressed into his ear, he finally managed to blink open his eyes, and half of Carson's face blurred above him.

The thermometer in his ear beeped, and Carson scowled at the readout, his expression a mixture of rage and alarm.

"How bad is it?"

Carson was standing on a chair, bending over the top of the cage. John watched him look at Ronon then back to John, his eyes raking over the front of his shirt. He squatted down, then tentatively reached out through the bars, brushing his fingers against the bandage just below John's breastbone. John heard him audibly gulp and imagined his Adam's apple bobbing.

"It's true. God above." Carson dropped from the chair so fast, that Ronon jerked a hand out to grab him. The two of them were on the side of the cage, barely within John’s peripheral vision. Carson rubbed a hand over his face, turning even paler.

"Beckett?" Ronon pressed, moving closer to John and resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Bomb," John whispered, though he was sure his voice was lost under the oxygen mask.

Ronon's hand tightened on his shoulder. "What?"

"Bomb," Carson answered. "Of all the barbaric things I've seen, this…" he shook his head. "The woman who sits at the end of the dais, she told us to tell you and anyone who might be thinking of staging a rescue that they put a… a damned _bomb_ inside him. I can feel bandages across his upper abdomen…"

His voice trailed off as he looked at John for confirmation. John nodded, feeling a giddy sense of relief that they knew about it. Like he wasn't carrying the weight of it all on his own. The room tilted, blurring to a bright white for a moment before fading back almost into focus.

"Are you in pain, lad? Of course, you're in pain. What the hell kind of question is that? Dear Lord…"

And yet he wasn't in pain. He twisted slightly, tensing his abs. He felt a slight tug where the bandages were, but little more. His right arm was completely numb, and the rest of his body felt like it was shivering under a thick layer of cement. Even the hard bench and bars felt squishy, like he was a kid hopping on a bouncy ball.

"Do'ssnn…hurrr'…" he slurred. He let his eyes slide closed. No pain. No fever. No hot. No cold. The dark was nice. Drugs, he knew, but they were nice, too.

"I have no idea what they've injected him with," Carson said, standing to hover over him. "We need to get him home."

"The woman who talked to you, she's been holding a little gray box with a purple light. Playing with it through the whole trial."

"Det…deh…det…" John stopped shaking his head when the word wouldn't form in his mouth. _Detonator._ "Det…nate…det…No. Dddd…" He groaned in frustration. Where was the dark? The quiet? That's what he needed. He just needed to lie down for a little bit. His body sank deeper against the bars.

"Detonator?" Carson asked.

 _That_ was the word he was trying to say. He nodded, but kept his eyes closed. The numbness was still coating him, containing jittery nerves, heart, and lungs. When the drugs wore off, everything would snap out of place, exploding—

Explode.

He jerked his head up, the image of his insides spraying out of a bomb blast in his gut slowly fading. Carson was behind him again, and he grabbed John's arm through the cage to steady him. The judges were back, the audience quiet. He must have passed out again. He felt his heart beat faster. The drugs were still there, flowing through his system and dulling his nerve, and beads of light hung in the air around him, humming like bees without moving.

He lifted his head from the bars and looked at Ronon, fighting through the drug hallucinations and heavy lethargy. He couldn't zone out, no matter how much it hurt. He had to pay attention, focus. The bomb wasn't just a threat to him now—it was a threat to Ronon and Carson and Halling and…

"Teyla?" he mumbled.

Carson started and turned to glance at John. "Not here," he whispered. "She's out recruiting witnesses again."

"Wi'nnessess?"

"Aye, for your defense. Not everyone in this galaxy thinks you're guilty."

"Howwwmmmdoingg?"

"Hard to tell, but so far, I'd say Ronon's putting up a solid defense for ya."

Ronon had stopped talking, though John had no clue what he'd been saying. He needed to pay closer attention. He blinked his eyes, forcing the courtroom and the people in it to come into focus.

"This should be interesting," Carson murmured.

"Wha’?"

"Hang on, John. I'll be back here in a minute."

With that, he stood and made his way to the witness chair in front of the judges. He sat, taking a deep breath. The cinders of pain in John’s stomach were threatening to wake up, and he breathed carefully. Resting against the bars, he could watch Ronon and Carson without moving at all.

Ronon stood in front of the judges. "The prosecution argued that Hoff was wiped out because of our interference, and when the Hoffan plague spread to other worlds because of their drug, the people who survived were then hunted by the Wraith—all because of what we did. Unlike the first charge of waking the Wraith, they said we acted consciously in this situation, that we weren't acting in self-defense this time. It wasn't a choice between Sheppard's life or a Wraith's life. It was proactive—on purpose."

He sounded like a lawyer, confident and in control. For a brief second, John caught a glimpse of who Ronon might have been if the Wraith had not destroyed Sateda, but he shook it off, cursing the drugs muddling his brain. A headache was beginning to pound in his temples but he forced himself to focus on what was being said.

"That's not the whole story," Ronon said. Over the next few minutes, he guided Carson through a few easy questions. Carson must have known what he was going to ask him. He answered quickly with no hesitation.

John's heart twisted in sympathy and a pain wholly unrelated to his present injuries as he remembered their time on Hoff. Carson spent a lot of time talking about his burgeoning relationship with the Hoffan doctor, Perna, the excitement and pure thrill of discovery as they’d chased down scientific question after scientific question. The hope that the Hoffan drug had offered them back then was born again in that morning’s trial. Behind him, the court audience mimicked Carson's emotions. John heard gasps at the idea of a being immune to Wraith feedings, utter stillness at the sacrifice and dedication of so many generations of Hoffan trying to reach for success, tears from a few when the ill man had sacrificed himself, and claps by many more when he’d lived through the feeding.

The ill man had later died. Then the Wraith. Beckett made it clear that the Hoffan drug had passed from a possible defense to decidedly offensive in nature.

Ronon had gradually stepped back to let Carson have center stage. He held a few papers in his hands, and John thought he saw them shake a little before Ronon set them back on the table again. Carson nodded, giving him a small smile.

“What did Sheppard do after we figured out the drug killed the Wraith?”

“He asked me to stop working until he’d had a chance to talk to the Chancellor. We all knew that the fact that the drug did not just stop the Wraith from feeding but killed them changed everything. It became a weapon, a very dangerous weapon, and we had no doubt what the Wraith would do once they learned of it.”

“And what happened when he talked to the Chancellor?”

Carson scowled. “Colonel Sheppard urged him to stop. The Hoffans had been pursuing this idea relentlessly for generations, and they were moving too quickly. They weren’t thinking about the implications of what having this drug and using this drug would mean to the Wraith.”

“But they continued?”

“Continued? Aye, you could say that. They refused to stop. The drug had proven successful in preventing one feeding, and the momentum to push it further and further was like a crashing wave. They were blinded by the momentary success and started inoculating their entire population. You just don’t do that sort of thing after one test. Medicine is not—”

“Beckett,” Ronon called out, interrupting him before he veered into a full-blown rant.

Carson snapped his jaw shut, a touch of color reddening his cheeks. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

The drugs in John's system were fading fast. He felt a bead of sweat run down the side of his face. The vise around his head shifted, clamping down on the muscles in his neck and back. The cage and bench grew solid and hard, digging into his body. He blinked, biting back a groan. He had to hold out long enough for Ronon to make his point. Then maybe the court day would be over and he could lie down for a little while.

“Despite our warnings about how the Wraith were likely to react," Carson said, "they began spreading the drug to all of their people. They had a whole schedule almost immediately, with the labs working nonstop to produce the serum. As soon as it was done, they would send it to the hospitals where it was administered almost before the boxes hit the floor. I’ve never seen anything like it. Colonel Sheppard and I returned to talk to the Chancellor again, begging him to slow down and act a little more cautiously, when…”

“When?” Ronon prompted.

“We got an emergency call from the central hospital in the city. People had started pouring in with some unknown acute respiratory illness, overwhelming their resources. I went to work, trying to help where I could while Colonel Sheppard sent word back to Atlantis, calling for a full emergency medical support team. We figured out quickly that the illness was connected to the Hoffan serum—half of all people inoculated died. There was nothing we could do. Perna—”

Carson stopped, his voice breaking as he choked back the emotion. “So many people died. If only they’d listened to us. If we could have tested the drug a little more, maybe…”

“What did the Hoffan government do when it learned of the death rate?” Ronon asked, pushing Carson's testimony forward.

The doctor shook himself, taking a deep breath. “They held a vote amongst all of their people to decide whether or not they should continue inoculating their people with the drug.”

“Did you see the results?”

“Aye, we did. As we were leaving. We’d helped the Hoffans at their request, but we could no longer in good conscience continue to help them administer such a lethal drug. The vote was 96 percent in favor of continuing.”

“Why didn't anyone from Atlantis try to stop them?”

“Stop them?” Carson repeated. “It wasn’t our place or our right to do so. We helped them when they asked for help, but they crossed a line that we, ethically, could not cross with them. We didn’t agree with their actions, but their people had voted on it. It was their decision to move forward with the drug inoculation, not ours. So we left.”

“What happened to them after you left?”

John's heart twisted again and he closed his eyes. Memories of the destroyed world rose in his mind, forever replacing the ones of the thriving world he'd seen when they'd first arrived.

Carson slumped back in his chair. “They were destroyed by the Wraith, just like we knew they would be. About five or six months later, we learned that the Wraith had become active in that part of the galaxy. We sent a MALP—a camera—to find out if the Hoffans were still alive. The main city around the gate had been destroyed. They were gone, at least as far as we could tell—either killed or escaped.”

“Okay,” Ronon said. “Thanks. That’s all.”Carson stood and headed straight for the cage. He dropped down in his seat directly behind John, immediately grabbing John’s wrist and feeling for a pulse.

"Did good," John whispered.

"That was just the set up," Carson answered. Ronon was back at his table, leaning over his notes and asking for the bomb doctor—Jobin Cresha—to come forward as a witness. The judges looked at each other in confusion, but eventually shrugged, and Slick waved a hand over his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the Amish lookalike breeze past him, his face devoid of expression as Ronon waited for him to sit down. He looked older to John than he had earlier that day, but the evaporating drugs were giving everything a harder edge.

The old doctor sat stiffly in the chair. “I’ve given my testimony of what happened already. What else could you possibly need to know?”

“Where did you work?” Ronon’s voice came out sharp and loud, cutting the doctor off.

The other man bared his teeth, anger flooding into his expression. “I am a medical doctor,” he said, each word clearly enunciated and carried to every corner of the room. “I worked at the hospital.”

“In the capital city.”

“Yes.”

“That’s where they started giving out the drug, right?”

The doctor stared at Ronon, not answering.

“Do I need to speak more slowly?" Ronon hissed, matching the doctor's anger.

The witness sighed deeply, then nodded. “Yes, as far as I know. I didn’t work in that part of the hospital. I didn’t administer the drug.”

Ronon paused, studying the scrawled notes on the page in front of him. John frowned, trying to guess where his friend was going with this.

“You treated people though, who had gotten the drug.”

“When they were dying, you mean? Yes, I stayed up for four days and four nights straight, doing all that I could for these people. Have you ever watched a person suffocate to death, right in front of you? Watched them wheeze their last breaths in desperation as their lungs shut down?”

“You don’t like the idea of this drug, do you?”

The doctor flew up out of his chair. “This is ridiculous,” he yelled, facing the judges. “I will not be treated in this matter by this barbarian. Am I on trial here?” He stepped down from the seat, not waiting for an answer.

“I’m not done!” Ronon roared, flying up out his own chair and slamming his fists into the table. John flinched in reaction and felt Carson grab his arm protectively.

“Doctor, you will answer the questions," one of the judges said. "You agreed to participate in the trial.”

John scanned their faces, trying to figure out which one had spoken. A woman with curly red hair, he guessed, based on the glares she was getting from Slick and Shiana. If all the judges had a final say on his guilt, maybe there was a chance for a fair hearing afterall. John felt a little thrill of hope run through him.

The bomb doctor stomped back to his seat and sat down, crossing his arms. His eyes narrowed, his lips turning white as he pressed them together.

“Were you involved in the creation of this drug at all?” Ronon asked.

“No,” the doctor answered, his voice a monotone and his expression stony.

“Did you know about it?”

The doctor didn’t answer.

“Does that mean no? Did the Hoffan government and some secret group of scientists work on this drug without anyone knowing about it?”

The doctor folded his arms, lifting up his chin.

“Okay, how about this?" Ronon said, growing visibly impatient. "This drug—this immunity against the Wraith—it’s probably not even a Hoffan thing. Atlantis got this idea that instead of fighting the Wraith, they could make themselves immune to the whole feeding thing. They needed a planet to test it on, though, and they chose you. They chose Hoff. Am I right? Hoff was full of a bunch of ignorant, naïve, gullible—”

“Do not speak of my people that way!” the doctor roared.

“They’re the victims. Isn’t that what you and those guys—”

“The _accuser,_ ” Slick interjected with resignation.

“—said. Atlantis pushed you into trying out this drug that they had invented. It’s a good idea, you know, if it had worked. I bet a lot of planets would have been happy to—”

“You think you can trick me into saying something foolish,” the doctor said, relaxing a little into his chair. He gave Ronon a small smile. “I am no idiot, Satedan.”

“But you believe some stupid story about this Hoffan scientist coming up with an idea for a drug to fight the Wraith, and all these people dying to keep him alive.”

“It is no story. It is fact. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Bet he didn’t really have a drug. Bet he just said that so people would stand out front and sacrifice themselves to the Wraith. Maybe he thought he might actually escape—”

“Do not insult the memory of my people. We were brilliant, on the cusp of a new golden age and the greatest discovery this galaxy would have ever seen. Thousands of my people died giving our scientists one last chance to perfect their drug. Every school child on Hoff knows— _knew,_ " he corrected with a sneer, "of the greatness of our people. Of what they could accomplish if only they gave themselves over completely to the task."

"And the drug—"

"Would have worked!" he screamed. "But we were rushed into it. You—you made us do it. You must have. After generations of work, thousands of lives devoted to this one project, we would not have thrown it away so quickly. We were so close before the last great culling—second to last, I mean. And then I read the news of the advances we were making, and it was like a dream coming true. You took that away."

"How?"

"You left! The drug was dangerous, unfinished. You knew this, and yet you did not stay to finish the work you had begun."

"We didn't start it," Ronon pointed out. "You just said your people had spent generations working on this."

"We did. But we weren't finished with it. You are twisting my words," the doctor spit out, his face turning red.

"I don't do that," Ronon answered, his voice flat, and despite the clawing pain growing in intensity, John quirked a smile at the response. "Should Atlantis have helped with the drug?"

"Yes," he snapped, then paused. "No. That's not…the purpose of the drug was to make ourselves immune to Wraith feedings. We did not know the Wraith would wipe us out completely when it was discovered that it killed them as well."

"Wasn't that a bonus?"

"No, not if it meant we had to die because of it. This was your fault! You should have warned us—"

"We did."

"And then you left."

"We knew what would happen with the Wraith. We told your Chancellor of the risks and that we would not be a part of a plan that would end in the destruction of an entire civilization. He told us they would pursue it, with or without us."

"So you left. Rather than help us, Atlantis left. They didn't like our plan and didn't want to suffer the consequences of it. You left, and my world died."

"That's all I got for him," Ronon said.

The doctor's face became darker. "You will not soil the memory of my people. We were brilliant. Far more advanced than any world in this galaxy. Atlantis destroyed Hoff. You were too selfish to stick around, even though we'd asked for your help. Your refusal to give it killed my family, my entire world! You will die. I will see to it! All of you… I will take away everything…"

At a signal from Slick, a couple of guards stepped forward, taking the bomb doctor by the arms and dragging him from the room. Shiana looked murderous, glaring at the doctor as he left. His ranting screams were abruptly cut off as a door slammed, and then the room descended into stark quiet.

John let out a rough exhale. It sounded amplified to him in the quiet of the room. He'd forgotten the pain for a moment, as the doctor had raged, but now that the tension in the room had dissipated with the doctor's exit, it slammed into him full force. He moaned, trying to curl up around his gut, and cursed the band holding him up around his chest.

The air flowing from the mask grew stronger as Carson adjusted the flow, and John focused on that. He breathed in, careful not to stretch fiery muscles around the incision.

"Atlantis is being charged with interfering in this galaxy," Ronon said. John strained to fight back the wave of agony enough to hear his friend. "But I want to know where the line is. If we hadn't helped the Hoffans at their request, they would have still pursued this drug. It would have worked the same way, and the Wraith would have destroyed them just the same in the end. Are we to be held responsible for the destruction of the Hoffan people because we did not interfere enough?"

Ronon moved across the room, back to his table, and sat down in the chair. "Let's make this simple. The real question here is whether Atlantis is to be held responsible for everything the Wraith do. The Wraith feed—is that our fault? They build Hive ships and weapons—are we responsible for that? What about the cullings and the destruction that took place before these people," he leaned forward, pointing to John and Carson, "got here. Should we throw them on trial because they didn't get here earlier enough?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Slick said. "You are making arguments well beyond the charges at hand."

"Hoff was fairly advanced. The Wraith don't like that. They destroy worlds that progress too far to keep themselves safe from their herders. They did it to Sateda ten years ago; they did it to Hoff when that world developed a means to fight against them. They've done it to countless other worlds for thousands of years. I get that you're all angry, but it's the Wraith that do this to us. They're the ones we need to be fighting."

Slick scoffed. "You propose we hold a trial for the Wraith?"

"No!" Ronon yelled, on his feet. "Why are we wasting our time here, fighting against the one group of people who have managed to fight the Wraith and win battle after battle? You're all sitting here feeling sorry for yourselves because of what you've lost, but we've all lost. Every generation on every planet in this entire galaxy has lost. You want someone to blame, so you kidnap him, beat him, make him sick, then tie him to a cage for this farce. It won't change what's already happened, and it won't change what the Wraith will continue to do. We need to stop fighting each other and get out there—fight back at the true enemy."

A babble of voices broke out around John, both in the audience and amongst the judges. Slick was banging his fist against the table, trying to get everyone's attention, but to no avail. John felt a sweeping exhaustion move in behind the pain, and he sighed in relief. He was on the verge of passing out, but he'd heard Ronon's argument. His friend had done a good job given what he had to work with. He closed his eyes, letting the pain and fatigue sweep him away for the rest of the day.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The sewer smell grew stronger as the small group pressed forward, and Ronon nodded in satisfaction. Keras and Willa’s directions had gotten the small group within the vicinity of the waterways, and now Ronon’s nose was doing the rest of the work. Clean water flowed in; dirty water flowed out. If they wanted an exit, they needed to follow the water flowing out.

At least that had been his initial logic. As they walked, the tunnels descending toward the sewer smell, it occurred to Ronon that there would be egress points where the clean water was flowing in as well. He shook his head. Didn’t matter. Clean water didn’t smell—at least not as strongly as dirty sewage water. It was much easier tracking a path to the sewer.

He just hoped to hell they didn’t have to actually get in the sewer.

Behind him, Keras and Halling alternated pushing Sheppard in the cart, giving McKay and Beckett a break. Teyla and the rest of their small group brought up the rear, but once they’d broken off the main so-called streets, they saw fewer and fewer people. The area they were in was now devoid of people besides them. It would make explaining their presence difficult, but Ronon would take the risk. And if anyone they met didn’t like their explanation, well, that’s what the gun was for.

The tunnel narrowed then turned, and Ronon heard rushing water ahead. He picked up his pace, tightening his grip on his weapon. There were bound to be more people near the water, even the sewage waterways, after the explosions at the main gate. It was what he would do—double or triple the guards at every entrance and exit to prevent enemies from entering or escaping. This far from the trial, most people didn’t seem to have any information on the explosions, and worst-case scenarios were running rampant.

He saw the dirty water flowing in a wide tunnel ahead of him and he slowed down. He signaled the others to stop, then snuck forward. The lights were darker in the sewage tunnel, the casings covered in a layer of grime. The smell intensified, and Ronon pressed the back of his hand to his nose. He glanced up the tunnel first, then down, but saw no one. Along each side of the river of sewage was a narrow walkway, maybe four feet wide with no safety railing on the edge. They’d have to tread carefully.

He jogged back to the others and explained the layout, then led them forward. The sewer would take them outside—he knew it. Adrenaline thrummed through him, his muscles electrified with excitement. They were close to the end—in a few minutes, his job would be complete and his people out of the fortress. The urge to walk faster and speed along to that end point was almost overwhelming but he forced himself to take it slow. Halling had the cart now and was pushing it along, the wheel on one side just a few inches from the edge.

Ronon spotted another tunnel mouth in the wall ahead and he moved up, intent on clearing it before the others got close to possible danger. Beyond this particular tunnel, the sewer curved, twisting out of sight. With his gun raised, he ducked his head into the darkness, stretching out all of his senses.

Nothing. The tunnel was empty—a single, narrow path that led back toward the city. He could see about 50 feet down it before it curved, so they’d have ample warning if anyone came from that direction. The lights were flickering on and off as well, casting some areas into deep shadows and providing small pockets of cover.

He waved the group forward, eyeing Sheppard the entire time. The ground was flat and solid, but Sheppard’s body still shook and rattled in the cart. Other than dark purple circles under his eyes, his face was ghostly white, almost like he was fading right in front of them. His head bounced and lolled against the back of the cart. The folded jacked he’d been resting against had slid to the side, but Sheppard looked deeply unconscious. His legs swung slightly from the knees down where they hung over the lip of the cart.

Halling slowed, grimacing when the cart gave one final, bouncing lurch. Behind him, the others caught up looking scared and anxious. They were civilians—Ronon had to remember that part. The only trained fighters in the group were himself and Teyla. _And McKay,_ he added, thinking of the bombs his teammate had set off. Despite his tendency to whine and panic, McKay was solid in a battle—not that he’d tell him that anytime soon—especially one that involved getting their team out alive.

“Everyone take cover in here,” he whispered, pointing to the tunnel. “I’m going to scout ahead. The closer we get to the exit, the more likely we are to run into someone.”

They nodded, filing into the tunnel behind Halling and Sheppard. Beckett immediately knelt by their team leader’s side and began checking him over, frowning the second he touched him.

“Beckett?”

Ronon had to ask, even though time was of the essence. Beckett glanced up at him, his face grim. “Still alive.”

He nodded then spun around and took off, not willing to waste another second. He kept as close to the wall as he could, straining in to see ahead of him in the dim lights. The rushing water masked all sounds, which both worked for him and against him.

He didn’t see the next tunnel opening until he was almost on top of it. This one was dark, its lights completely broken. It had looked like nothing more than a shadow on the wall until something pale flickered into sight from within. He slid to a halt, raising his gun.

“Do not move, or I will shoot,” a voice from the shadowy tunnel said. A hand appeared, holding a gun similar in size and model to the one Ronon had. The voice was high-pitched and the hand on the hilt of the gun pointing at him slender. A woman.

“Funny,” Ronon answered, stopping in place. “Was gonna say the same thing.” He’d fought enough battles on enough worlds that it didn’t matter who was behind the gun, and that a woman was just as dangerous as any man. Teyla, for example.

“You’re the Speaker for the Defense,” the voice said.

Ronon’s stomach clenched. “Who are you?”

A head appeared—red curly hair, narrow face. He recognized her as one of the judges. “Kaia. I was at the trial.”

“I remember—you’re a judge. You left before the end.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, ignoring Ronon’s last comment.

“Looking for a way out.”

“You left your friends?” she asked.

Ronon bit back the urge to growl and just shoot her already. She was a part of this mess, and he’d feel little regret later for clearing the path to escape if it meant Sheppard survived. His finger tightened on the trigger, but he hesitated. Her presence here raised too many questions.

“What are you doing down here?” he asked instead.

“Same as you. Looking for a way out.”

“You’re part of this,” Ronon growled. “Can’t you just walk out the door?”

“Obviously not, Satedan,” she spit back. “The guards of Daet have the entire fortress shut down—no one in or out.” They eyed each other, still holding their weapons up. “Now what?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

“I did not want to be part of this trial to begin with, but my world is small and my leaders felt obligated to send a representative when asked.”

Anger lanced through him at the thought of the trial proceedings Sheppard had suffered through, and he almost pulled the trigger on reflex. He forced his hand to relax slightly.

“I just want to go home, and I assume you do as well.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “You argued passionately for your friend during the trial, as did the others with you. I can’t imagine you’d leave them behind.”

Ronon said nothing, but that was answer enough for Kaia. “There is a heavy door around the next bend that leads to the outside,” she said. “From there, it will be a quick walk to the Ring. When I arrived, there were only two guards, but four more came before I made myself known. They are all heavily armed. The message to lock down Daet has clearly spread to here.”

“Get to the point.”

“I could shout for help. I imagine they would come running instantly. You could shoot me, but that would also alert the guards of your presence.”

Ronon waited. She was driving at something but taking her sweet-assed time getting there.

“On the other hand, I cannot take on six guards by myself, and I have no rational explanation for my presence down here.”

“Then point your gun in the other direction and maybe we can reach an arrangement.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“I don’t need you,” Ronon answered.

“But you do need me to keep quiet.”

“I don’t have time for this.”

Her face softened suddenly and her gun dipped. “I know. Your friend was very ill. Does he live still?”

“Yeah, he lives, but we need to get out of here.” He let his gun drop a little, still pointed at her and ready to shoot, but hopefully not quite so threatening.

“Your arguments in defense of Colonel Sheppard were persuasive—”

“Too bad the trial was a joke,” Ronon interrupted with a snap. He sucked in a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. The running water was loud, but if the guards were as close as Kaia was saying, he had to be quieter.

“Not to all of us,” she hissed back. “Tell me, Ronon of Sateda, how did you defend Colonel Sheppard and Atlantis against the charge of creating the Asurans and turning them loose on the galaxy?”

He shook his head, losing patience with this woman. “You didn’t care to hear it the first time. Why do you care now?”

“I was… indisposed,” she said. “I _want_ to hear your defense.”

He got it then. While the lead judge with the slicked back hair and Shiana had been driving toward one final outcome with this trial, Kaia had come in good faith, prepared to hear both sides. His last trial defense was now, before this woman. If he persuaded her, she would probably let them go, maybe even join them. If he did not, all she had to do was scream or shoot her weapon, and the guards would come running, easily finding him and the rest of his group—armed only with a couple of knives—a few dozen yards back. They would stand no chance against the soldiers.

A scraping sound behind him interrupted his thoughts and he tensed. Kaia’s eyes widened and her gun shifted slightly, wavering between Ronon and whoever was behind him. Ronon held his breath for a moment, prepared to spin out of the gun’s path and kick the person sneaking up on him.

And then he relaxed, sighing as loudly as he dared. “McKay, how many times have I told you not to sneak up on me?”

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you,” the scientist whispered back. “I was coming from the only direction I possibly could have. How’d you know it was me, anyway?”

“You breathe loud.”

McKay huffed, and Ronon let a brief grin play at the corners of his mouth. “See?”

“Shut up. What’s taking so long—” His voice cut off at the sight of Kaia trying to hold a gun on both of them. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s your new friend?”

“One of the judges—Kaia. She wants to hear my defense against the Asurans.”

McKay sputtered, and Ronon knew exactly what kind of face he was making. Kaia frowned, her eyes shifting between the two of them. “Answer me,” she said.

“Or what?” McKay responded, loud enough that Ronon and Kaia both cringed.

“Or she alerts the six armed guards just around the corner,” Ronon whispered.

“Oh.” There was a pause, then a deep breath. “Right,” he whispered back.

“Into the tunnel,” Ronon said, gesturing toward the darkness. “If we’re going to talk, I don’t want the guards to hear us.”

“Maybe I should go back—”

“Stay,” Kaia ordered, training her gun on McKay. She gave Ronon a quick nod and then backed up slowly into the dark tunnel.

They followed her several feet in, stopping only when they could barely see each other. Ronon knew the gun was still pointed toward them, and he kept his leveled at the bare outline of the judge.

“The final charge against Sheppard was in regards to the Asurans,” she started.

“Same story every time,” Rodney huffed. “Atlantis interfered and their actions—through the Asurans—led to millions of deaths. Oh, and Sheppard must pay for them all.”

“He is a leader of Atlantis.”

“Yeah, that makes sense in your twisted view of things,” Rodney shot back. “He’s a proxy for Atlantis, who killed millions of people through their proxies, the Wraith and the Asurans and the Hoffan virus and whatever else your miniscule little brains can come up—”

“McKay, shut up.” In the darkness, Ronon heard his teammate’s mouth snap shut. He turned toward Kaia. “Not that I disagree with him.”

“Your defense,” she said, and her voice sounded smaller in here, less confident. Less certain of her plan to hear his final argument in the first place.

“Okay,” he started. “McKay’s right. The accuser’s argument is the same—Atlantis either interferes too much or doesn’t interfere enough, and no one’s ever happy about it. We heard about the Asurans in… um…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” McKay interrupted. “This is why I’m here.” He shifted, his back scraping along the tunnel wall. “Based on what we’ve uncovered, the Asurans were originally conceived of as a weapon that would attack Wraith DNA directly. They built nanites—”

“Nanites?” Kaia asked.

“Little tiny machines, and by tiny I mean miniscule—small enough to flow through a person’s or a Wraith’s veins—”

“Cliff Notes version, McKay.”

The scientist huffed again, then jerked toward Ronon. “How do you know about Cliff Notes?”

Ronon growled, which elicited a long sigh from his teammate. “Okay, on task. The short version: the Ancients built little machines to fight the Wraith, but then the little machines started replicating and then joining together until they took the form of the Ancients themselves—machines the size and appearance of people.”

“This is possible?”

“Yes, obviously,” McKay snapped. “They were machines with computer coding—I don’t suppose you have any idea what that means?” He paused for a brief second, hardly giving Kaia a chance to respond before continuing. “The Ancients removed the part of their code that made them aggressive—turned it off, so to speak—but then they weren’t a weapon anymore and had to be destroyed, yadda yadda yadda. The Ancients, of course, utterly failed to destroy them completely, we found them, they tried to kill us—”

“So you acted in self-defense in response.”

“Yes,” McKay said. “No. Wait. I’m not finished. We escaped, but they hated the Ancients and tried to destroy Atlantis twice, at least. When we realized they were built as a weapon against the Wraith, we… turned that part of them back on.”

He paused again, waiting for a response, but Kaia was silent. Ronon placed a hand on McKay’s arm to stop him and picked up the story. “It worked at first. They started attacking the Wraith, destroyed a dozen hive ships. You sit there in judgment over 2 million people who died because of Atlantis. What about all the people who lived because of us? Dead Wraith can’t feed.”

“But you admit to turning the Asurans back into aggressors?”

“Their sole purpose was to destroy the Wraith, but after attacking the hives directly, they decided that it would be less costly for them to take out the people the Wraith fed on. Starve the Wraith—not a strategy anyone considered.”

“But that does not change the fact that they began destroying worlds, killing people who may have otherwise lived.”

McKay squirmed, unable to contain himself. “It’s in their nature. The Wraith feed. That’s who they are. We can’t be held responsible for that.”

“But we can be held responsible for the Asurans’ nature,” Ronon said. “We changed it. We made them aggressors.”

“Who’s side are you on anyway?” he yelled.

Ronon and Kaia both shushed him. Ronon turned toward the tunnel, listening for any sign of the guards. After several long seconds, no guards rushed past in search of them. He turned back to McKay and Kaia.

“I know,” McKay whispered. “Sorry.”

“Kaia, all I can say in our defense is that our intentions were to stop the Wraith from feeding on the people of this galaxy and taking more innocent lives. When we realized the Asurans had shifted their strategy from attacking Hive ships to attacking human worlds, we acted.”

He paused, considering what to tell her. Few people would understand forming an alliance with the Wraith, and trying to explain that would take too much time. “Atlantis is not the only advanced civilization in this galaxy,” he said instead. “We got as many ships together as we could and as much help as we could, including from a group called the Travelers, and we attacked the Asurans. We destroyed them.”

“How do I know this is true?”

“Heard of any Asuran attacks recently?” McKay bit back, quietly this time. Kaia didn’t answer and McKay pressed on. “One of the Travelers is—or was—here, waiting in her ship for word to come down and testify to what happened in that battle. You may still get a chance to talk to her, if we ever get out of here, but for now you have to trust us. The Asurans are gone—all of them. We’re sorry for what they did, but we didn’t run away and hide when things started to go wrong.”

They sat there, waiting for a response from her but she was silent. Ronon dragged a hand over his face, wondering how much time had passed. They’d given her the gist of his defense against the Asurans and now it was up to her to decide.

A thought occurred to him. “Why weren’t you in the courtroom for the last charge?”

He studied her faint outline in the darkness and saw her shoulders slump. “This trial was never intended to be fair. I know that now, but before it started… We were told many things about your Colonel Sheppard and he sounded like a monster. The accuser’s statements in courts were mere echoes of what we’d heard already. But once you began defending him, I don’t know… it changed things, at least for a few of us. We began to doubt the story we’d been told. Shiana was furious with you. It had been her idea to appoint you the defender, and those in charge of the trial had been convinced you were little more than a barbaric, uneducated thug in Sheppard’s employ.”

Ronon growled, and Kaia’s head snapped up in alarm. “Those were not my words,” she whispered. “Some of us expressed our doubts, questioned the story we’d been initially told behind closed doors. We were led to a room, then locked up, prevented from participating in the rest of the trial. I don’t know what the other judges were told or what our fates would have been. When we heard the explosion, we broke out of the room and fled.”

Ronon felt Kaia’s hand on his arm. “Please,” she begged. “Perhaps Atlantis holds some guilt when it comes to the Asurans’ actions, but in my heart, I cannot find you or Colonel Sheppard guilty of the charges as a whole. I would have voted for his innocence. I just want to go home now.”

She tugged on his arm, and then he felt her pressing her gun into his hand. “Please help me.”

He pulled the gun away from her, holding one in each hand. It was still a risk bringing her with them but he saw no other option. And it was what Sheppard would do.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s get the others. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

McKay’s sucked in a quick breath but said nothing. They crept back to the waterway tunnel, checked for guards, then led them back to the others.

One last barrier—one last battle—and then they would be free.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

 **Part 4**

John woke up to something hard pressing against the inside of his ear. He moaned, attempting to turn away from it but his head was stuck in place. A thrill of panic shot through him. His head was stuck. His arms weren’t moving either. Nor his legs.

“Are you completely daft?” a voice whispered, puffs of breath cool on his cheek.

“It was the only way they were going to let me in,” another voice hissed back.

A beeping sound interrupted their whispered argument and the thing in John’s ear disappeared.

“Damn it,” the first voice said. _Carson._ The thought floated up through the sludge of his mind and he tried, and failed, to open his eyes. They were glued shut and heavy. Way too heavy.

“What?” the second voice asked. It sounded closer than Carson’s voice, and John became aware of pressure against his left side that shifted as the second voice spoke.

“His fever’s up another degree.”

“Rodney?” John said, or thought he said, finally placing the second voice. The sound was muffled, not quite audible to his own ears and his eyes were still stubbornly closed. The pressure against his side shifted again, and then a hand grabbed his shoulder.

“John?”

Carson’s voice sounded behind him, his breath cool against the back of John’s neck. “Are you awake, son? Try not to move.”

He would have laughed if he’d had the energy. Move? He couldn’t even open his eyes. Fingers grabbed his wrist, pressing into the pulse point, and he heard Carson tsking. There was a drone of voices around him, but they sounded like they were muffled or underwater. Or like he was underwater. He breathed deep at the thought of drowning, feeling a heavy pressure against his chest that countered his attempts to draw air into his lungs.

The pressure increased, a shot of adrenaline lancing through him. He flailed, moaning, and managed to lift his head up enough to shift it forward. The weight was too much, though, and the muscles in his neck screamed as his head slumped forward and his chin landed on his chest.

“Easy, John,” Rodney said, uncharacteristically quiet. Cool hands eased his head back up and set it against the bars behind him.

He managed to open his eyes to slits this time, and saw the blurry image of Rodney McKay in front of him. “Rodney?” he whispered. A mask was pressing against his face, but air brushed against his lip. Oxygen mask. IV. Thermometer. He remembered that now—Carson trying to treat him through the bars of the cage.

Except that Rodney was _in_ the cage with him.

“Can’t you do anything?”

“I’m doing all I can,” Carson hissed back.

John felt the IV in his arm tug as the doctor fiddled with it. Pain thrummed along in the background, not overwhelming but also not like it had been swamped in drugs, at least not Carson’s drugs. More like his body was tired of noticing of it, the nerve endings exhausted from sending their screaming signals to his brain to no avail. He let his eyes drift closed, but an icy weight against his forehead jerked him to full conscious.

“Wha’?” he mumbled.

Rodney appeared in front of him again. “Sorry,” he whispered. He was holding something to John’s forehead with enough pressure to pin his head to the bars behind him. “Your fever’s really high.”

The words triggered a reaction, and in a split second, John went from realizing he was stifling hot to freezing. He groaned as shudders wracked through his body.

“Oh my God, what did I do? I didn’t do that. What’s wrong with him?” Rodney squeaked, then ducked a little when Carson shushed him. “He’s shaking.”

“Chills,” Carson said. “Bloody barbarians. I wish they’d at least let me in there to help.”

“W-why h-h-here…R-Rod’y?”

Rodney’s hand shifted and the cold compress disappeared. John continued to shake, feeling just as chilled as before. He noticed the judges on their dais, Ronon standing in front of them and talking, the prosecutor yelling out from his table on the other side. The trial was still going on around him, moving too fast for him to grasp.

“To help. Why else would I put myself in imminent danger?” he snapped, quietly, but he shot a nervous glance at Carson, who sighed behind them.

“Whazzit?”

Rodney shook his head and John scowled. The words would not form properly in his mouth.

“Wha’ nn-not…tellin’ m-m-me?”

Rodney shrugged, but he was a terrible poker player. Even feverish and weak, John could see he was hiding something. He felt a hand on his shoulder and then Carson leaned close to his ear.

“We might as well tell him. He’ll get himself all worked up otherwise.”

Rodney said nothing, but he sat back on the bench next to John, squishing in on the end. John was still tied to the center of it, leaving his teammate little room to make himself comfortable on the bench.

“It was the only way,” Rodney whispered.

John could just see him out of the corner of his eye. His teammate was red-faced and focused on the judges and Ronon, but he had that stubborn thrust to his jaw. Whatever he’d done, John knew he wasn’t going to like it.

“The final charge against ya is about the Asurans. Rodney was allowed into the trial as an expert witness, but only because he agreed to join you as part of the accused party. Whatever they decide in regards to you will now also apply to him.”

“No,” John moaned. The chills were subsiding, and a wave of heat flushed through him. “Shiana, she’ll make sure… guilty…”

“Granted, Ronon’s done a hell of a better job than anyone expected,” Rodney interrupted, “but the Asuran thing was complicated.” He shook his head. “I answered every question that damn prosecutor threw at me, but I’m not sure I convinced any of the judges of anything.”

“Why…you c-come?” John pressed.

“I get more _bang_ for the buck,” Rodney said, a small smile playing at his lips.

“R-Rodn’y.”

“It was the only way, John. They wouldn’t have let me in here otherwise, and I wasn’t going to sit around outside on my ass and leave you alone in here. Not when I could help.”

John closed his eyes, feeling a whole different kind of pain well up inside of him. Shiana would kill him regardless of the outcome of the trial, and now Rodney would most likely be killed as well. Maybe it was overwhelming exhaustion or the relentless pain pounding at him, but John felt himself losing control as the tight grip on his emotions unraveled. He sucked in a deep rattling breath and felt Carson’s steadying hand on his shoulder. The weight on his chest moved up into a lump in his throat.

He opened his eyes. Rodney was staring straight ahead, carefully not looking at him. John swallowed, working some moisture into his mouth and lifting his head just enough to turn it toward his friend.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Rodney didn’t move for a long second, but then finally he nodded, his shoulders slumping as he leaned back against the cage.

“Is that your final word, Speaker for the Defense?” Judge Slick’s loud voice cut through the bubble around John, Rodney, and Carson. John blinked, bringing the rest of the room into clearer focus. It sounded louder, like there were more people at the trial despite a handful of empty seats up on the judges’ dais.

“No,” Ronon answered, his voice equally as loud. “These people—the Lanteans,—come from a galaxy untouched by the Wraith. They could run home at any time and avoid all of this, but they don’t. They stay and fight. You people can argue all day on the reasons why and if this is the same as admitting guilt, but they have done more—and are still doing more—than anyone else in this galaxy to fight the Wraith and free us of that scourge. They don’t have to do that, but they do, and I think that says a lot about who they are as a people.”

Ronon paused, and Rodney turned, whispering to both John and Carson. “This is where all of Teyla’s hard work over the past two days comes into play.”

“What?” John asked.

He had yet to see Teyla, or hear from her, today. He’d assumed she was here, but he felt his heart thump against his ribs in sudden panic. Was she here? Was she okay?

“As Speaker for the Defense, I call forward witnesses for Sheppard, who will speak to his character and the character of the people he represents. They are not the kind of people this man—the accuser—has presented.”

“That is beyond the scope of this trial,” Slick growled, and Ronon’s back went tense. John tried to sit up but pain ripped through his middle, and he slumped back against the cage.

Before Ronon could respond, another judge spoke up—an older man, almost frail-looking with shaggy gray hair and a thick white beard. “It is allowed,” he said, “per the rules given to us regarding this trial. I would expect nothing less, in fact, from a Speaker for the Defense.”

Most of the judges froze, waiting for Slick’s response before giving any indication of what they were thinking. A few of them shifted in their seat, glancing between the old man and the lead judge. Slick’s face darkened, reddish purple traveling up his neck and tingeing his cheeks. He said nothing, but a second later, he waved at Ronon to continue.

“I am from Sateda,” Ronon continued. “My world was destroyed, but I was captured by the Wraith, implanted with a tracker, and turned into a runner for seven years. When Sheppard found me, he and his people took me in—removed the tracker, gave me shelter and food. Gave me my life and my freedom back and never asked for anything in return.”

He turned to John, staring him straight in the eye and giving him a short nod before turning to the crowd behind them. There was a shuffling sound, a creak of chairs as someone stood up.

“I am Halling of Athos.”

“We know who you are,” Slick spit out.

“But you do not know my history, or the history of my people with those of Atlantis. We were attacked by the Wraith soon after we met them and a number of our people—including myself—culled. You have heard the story of when John Sheppard killed the keeper and woke the Wraith, but you did not hear why he was on that hive ship to begin with. He was there for his people, yes, but also for mine. He rescued us from the Wraith, an idea that had been until that moment unimaginable in our society. With our home destroyed, he offered our people safe haven—food, shelter, medical care. His people helped us build a new world more than once. When all of my people were taken by the Wraith called Michael and held captive last year, it was Colonel Sheppard who freed us and returned us to our home to rebuild again. These are not the actions of people who do not care about the well-being of the inhabitants of this galaxy. As Ronon said, they have had ample opportunity to leave, but they _choose_ to stay, to fight, and to help.”

“Go Halling,” Rodney whispered.

“Rodney, I need you to check on John’s stomach,” Carson whispered.

There was more shuffling of people behind John, and he wished he could turn around to see who else was there. There had been a few faces he’d recognized in the crowd earlier, but he wasn’t sure how long ago that was or if they were still here. Rodney was moving, trying to turn and face him a little more.

“What am I supposed to be checking for?” he hissed back at the doctor.

“Place your hand on the center of his stomach, lightly. I need to know what it feels like.”

“Oh, God, I hate medicine.”

A man cleared his throat and the room quieted down. “I am Orin. My family has long been friends of the Athosians. Colonel Sheppard came to us to warn that the Wraith were coming. He saved my family and many of my neighbors, and only barely escaped the culling beam of the Wraith in the process.”

A flash of old guilt cut through John as he remembered the argument he’d had with Teyla that day, long ago, about trying to rescue everyone in the galaxy. Or maybe it was just Rodney’s hand on his stomach causing the pain. He tensed as the agony began to build, biting back a moan.

“It feels… I don’t know… maybe a little rigid? Does that mean he’s bleeding internally?”

“They cut him open and shoved a bomb in his stomach,” Carson responded. “Of course he’s bleeding internally.”

Rodney swallowed, his eyes widening as he stared at John. John tried to lift his arms to push Rodney away or cover the incision, but they were still tied down. A throb erupted in his right arm and he whimpered.

“Lift his shirt up,” Carson whispered.

John managed to lift his head out of the bars enough that he could turn it to the side. He could see Ronon and the first few rows of people in the seats behind him. He focused on them, ignoring Rodney and Carson’s whispering as they checked him over in front of everyone.

A young man stood up. _Keras,_ John thought before the man had even said a word, recognizing the distinguishing face paint he and his young people continued to use. Keras had grown in the last few years, but he still bounced and moved with the excitement of a much younger person. As Keras spoke of his village and the suicide ritual that had kept his population small, then John’s actions in showing his people an alternative and letting his people live longer, he was struck by the thought that this man would have been dead for four years at least had they not crashed near his village that day.

“I was injured, worse than any of my people could have dealt with, but Colonel Sheppard took me to his home where my life was saved. I am alive today because of him.”

He sat down, next to a beautiful woman who immediately stood up. “I am Willa,” she said. “John Sheppard visited my world while we were all captured and living under the influence of a dangerous man.”

“Ha,” John huffed. Lucius was despicable certainly, but he wouldn’t go so far as to call him dangerous. The memory of returning to Atlantis and finding everyone under Lucius’s thumb flashed through his mind. Okay, maybe dangerous was a good word. Cool air brushed against his stomach as his shirt was lifted, and he hissed.

“Deep breaths, John,” Carson whispered.

Willa sat down, but other people were standing up, shuffling forward to stand in line for an opportunity to speak.

“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” Rodney said.

John closed his eyes, trying to tune them out. He spotted Teyla sitting near the front row, guiding people in the line. She looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes and a weariness in her movements that he wasn’t used to seeing. An older man stepped forward and recounted the story of a creature in the woods hunting down the villagers until John Sheppard and his team arrived and eliminated the problem, how no one feared being outside or losing a loved one to sudden unexpected violence anymore. It wasn’t until he sat down that John placed him: the father of the man who’d taken in the Wraith child, Elia, and attempted to raise her as his own.

Rodney pushed too hard on his gut, and he choked on a cry. The world whited out for a moment, and a buzz grew in his head. He felt the overwhelming urge to throw up and he swallowed desperately while simultaneously trying to breathe as fast as possible. He slumped back against the bars, his head falling into the gap between them and forcing him to look straight ahead. Rodney hovered, though his face blurred in and out of focus, and he mumbled a stream of apologies. Carson was whispering something too, but John couldn’t make out any of it. The courtroom had gone quiet, he thought, but when he finally got the pain under control again, someone else was speaking.

A woman spoke of life under the rule of the people of the tower until John and his team had arrived. More people spoke of Wraith cullings they managed to hide from and survive after John or one of the Atlantis teams warned them of the danger. Still more spoke of medical help and food supplies, of Atlantis brokering peaces between fighting groups and introducing new allies to each other. The world blurred again at the number of people willing to come here and stand up for him despite the risks, and John curled his left hand into a fist, wrestling back his emotions.

Rodney had tugged his shirt back down and Carson was mumbling something about more antibiotics. John jerked as a cold compress was pressed against his feverish skin. The courtroom had quieted down, and the judges whispered to each other up on the dais. More than a few of them glanced his way, giving him small nods and looking embarrassed. The bolder judges shot disgruntled looks at Slick and the prosecution table.

 _My God, Ronon did it,_ he thought. He looked at Slick, but the man’s head was down, his forehead resting in his hands. He spoke to no one and radiated anger, and the judges on either side of him seemed to shift as far away from him as they could without standing and sliding their chairs over. He glanced next to the end of the bench, where Shiana sat.

Their gazes locked, but instead of looking angry, she smiled at him, the grin wide and insane. She looked out across the courtroom and all the people who’d come here in support of John, then pulled out the detonator box. She glanced at him again, holding the detonator up. She had told him from the start that she was not going to let him escape, regardless of the outcome of the trial.

“Bomb,” John hissed. “Rodney, get away. All of you. She’s…”

“Here goes nothing,” Rodney interrupted, closing his eyes.

The blast erupted over the main doors into the courtroom, spewing flames and echoing bangs. The floor shook, dousing the room into a moment of stunned silence, and then screams and the clatter of dozens of chairs falling over exploded as people stampeded toward the doors. Guards yelled, firing their weapons in the air and causing more panic.

John sucked in a breath, his eyes flying open. It took him a second to realize he was still alive, another to see his stomach was still intact and his insides still inside him. Not his bomb—that had not been his bomb. Dust rained down from the ceiling and shouts filled the room as people trying to get out clashed with the guards trying to keep them in. The judges looked equally stunned, cowering in their seats. A chunk of the ceiling fell and landed on their table.

Rodney was already on the bench and leaping over the top of the cage. Carson appeared in front of him, breaking the cage door and bustling in, a knife in his hand.

“We’ll get you out of here, lad,” he said, his voice tense as he worked to cut the binding off from around John’s arms and chest.

The band around his chest snapped free, then the ones on his wrists, and then the doctor was suddenly easing him forward. Nausea swirled in John’s gut, and then he felt another set of arms wrapping around him and easing him to his feet. His legs buckled at the new position, and black dots floated across his vision.

“We have you, John,” Teyla said, her grip around him tightening as she took on more of his weight.

“Careful of the IV,” Carson said from his other side. “I need to unhook it to get out from around this damned cage.”

“Bah…bb-bohh…”

 _Bomb,_ John tried to say, but the word would not form in his mouth. As Carson moved around him, Teyla shifted her weight, turning John toward Shiana. He looked up just in time to see Rodney jump with a high-pitched scream, all flailing arms and legs, and catch the woman by her hair. He pulled her forward, wrestling the detonator out of her hand.

He held it up in triumph, but the courtroom had devolved into utter chaos and a look of panic replaced his smile. The guards had stopped shooting, but they continued to wave their pistols in the air as they fought their way through the panicked throng. The judges had also leapt to their feet in alarm and were joining the crowd in an attempt to escape the relatively small confines of the courtroom.

A roar erupted in the center of the room. Ronon’s defense table slid across the room and smashed into a dais. A second later, he leapt up onto its surface, his hair flying behind him like a wild animal suddenly unleashed. Slick screamed, and John jerked in surprise to see the dark-haired judge pointing a gun at him and Teyla, his finger tightening on the trigger. Ronon grabbed his arm, pushing it up toward the ceiling just as he fired, and the bullet sailed harmlessly into the plaster, its sound drowned out by the screams around them.

Rodney ran back, shoving the detonator to John’s bomb into his vest and pointing to the other wall. “Side door!” he yelled over the din. Teyla and Carson responded immediately, dragging John forward. Next to them, Slick shoved Ronon and twisted, breaking the Satedan’s grip and running for the back door the judges had used. Ronon slipped and crashed to the floor, but he popped up a second later with a growl, jumping back up on the table to pursue him.

“Ronon!” Rodney yelled. “Side door, now!”

Teyla and Carson jumped forward, dragging John along, and throbbing agony erupted all over his chest and stomach. His eyes closed of their own accord, and he felt himself teetering toward darkness. He was vaguely aware of sliding against the wall to the floor, supported on either side by his friends. He blinked his eyes open, forcing himself to stay conscious for a little longer.

Within seconds, they exited the courtroom through the side door, crossed a wide corridor and hunkered down into smaller adjoining tunnel. Rodney squatted in front of them, holding a metal bar in his hand that looked like it had fallen off John’s cage. He set it down, glancing around before pulling out a small gray box. While it looked little like Shiana’s toy, John knew it was nothing other than the detonator to a bomb.

“Yippee ki-yay,” the scientist breathed out, half to himself, then he closed his eyes and flicked the switch.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Ronon crept forward, hearing the soft scrape of footsteps behind him. Kaia’s report on the guard situation had been correct—the tunnel opened up into a large room holding six soldiers standing in front of a very solid-looking door. The only other entrance besides their corridor along the waterway was a narrow tunnel off to the side, close to the metal door. He’d led McKay and the judge back to the others where they’d discussed a plan of attack, and minutes later, he was leading them toward the guards, tentative plan in place.

It curved slightly, following the natural path of the water through the mountain. Ronon kept close to the wall, using the intermittent shadows as much as possible to keep himself hidden. Up ahead, he saw the tunnel curve sharply. On the other side of that was the room with the guards and their door to freedom. He heard mumbling voices under the rushing roar of the dirty water, and he slid another few feet forward then peered around the corner.

The six guards stood in a loose half-circle, talking and laughing as they passed around a couple of small flasks. Rifles hung from straps over their shoulders, but the men were relaxed and unconcerned, far enough away from the main gate that they expected no trouble here. The heavy metal door behind them looked impenetrable, but Ronon pushed that thought aside. One thing at a time. First, they had to deal with the guards. Then they’d figure out the door.

One of the guards stamped his foot and a burst of laughter bubbled up from the others in response. They were young, barely out of their teenage years by the look of them. Guilt washed through Ronon and he ducked back into the shadows, biting his lip. The guards reminded him too much of himself at that age, and of his friends in his guard unit on Sateda. These were not the soldiers who’d kidnapped Sheppard, or kept him locked up in a cage in agonizing pain. These were boys, assigned to guard a distant door far from the action.

He crawled back a few feet to where the others were waiting for him. Teyla, Kaia, and Orin slid past him and headed toward the guards. Ronon stared at their backs, giving them a good head start before signaling Halling to follow him. The plan was simple—Teyla and Kaia would approach the guards, posing as the daughters of a sick and frail old man trying to return home. Assuming the guards didn’t shoot them on sight, they’d get close to them and provide as much of a distraction as they could for Ronon and Halling.

He paused as the three people ahead of him reached the guardroom and the chatter of the guards suddenly cut off. Kaia had her hands out to her sides in as non-threatening a way as possible, though Ronon could see the bulge of the handgun he’d given back to her tucked into the waistband at her back. Orin was hunched forward, walking slowly and exaggerating the stiffness of his movements.

He scooted forward another few feet, drawing his own weapon and glancing at Halling. The Athosian had their third gun and he held it ready, waiting for Ronon’s signal. Kaia’s voice rang out, demanding the guards let them through with their father, followed by Teyla’s softer begging. With a deep breath, Ronon tensed then flew around the corner.

The moment they burst into the room, the guards spun around, but Teyla and Kaia were already moving. Ronon covered the ground in three long steps, overtaking the guard bringing his rifle around to shoot him. He smacked him across the jaw and the kid went boneless. Two gunshots went off, and another of the guards cried out in pain. Teyla spun next to him, wielding the metal bar Rodney had picked up in the courtroom so many hours earlier. He moved instinctively in the other direction, slamming the butt of his weapon into another guard.

The fight was over in seconds. Ronon stood in the middle of them, sweating and breathing hard. Three of the guards were unconscious, while another was conscious but groaning incoherently on the floor. Teyla was pinning the fifth one to the ground with her knee in the man’s back, and Kaia held a gun on the last guard, who was sitting against the door and pressing a hand against a bloody gunshot wound in his leg. Orin had ducked down and out of the way the second the fighting had started, and he looked around in shock as McKay—pushing Sheppard—Beckett, Keras, and Willa surged into the room.

“Good,” Ronon breathed out, relief flooding through him. No injuries to his group and minimal ones to the young guards “Good,” he repeated. The others all looked as relieved as he felt. He waved McKay over. “We need to get this door open.”

“Right,” his teammate answered. He pushed Sheppard to the center of the room then moved to study the lock on the door. Ronon studied his team leader for a moment, his stomach clenching in fear. His face was haggard, the skin taking on the grayish tones of a corpse. Beckett had pulled out the oxygen mask again, and every few seconds a fog of condensation filled the inside of it—the only indication Sheppard was still alive, still breathing.

Teyla and Keras bound the guards’ hands with strips of cloth and dragged them to the far side of the room, and Ronon moved to the door to help McKay. The metal bar lying across it and keeping it closed would not budge. He wrestled it, but even when Halling stepped in to help, they could not move it. McKay was fiddling with the lock, and Ronon saw that he’d removed the outer casing and was pulling wires out, muttering about alien locks and convoluted designs.

Ronon turned back to the guards. Beckett had tied a rough bandage around the injured guard’s leg, and Keras and Teyla held the guards’ weapons. Willa had grabbed another rifle and moved to the mouth of the tunnel they’d traveled, standing watch, while Orin had one of the handguns and stood guard at the entrance of the other tunnel.

“Find any keys on them?” he asked.

He hadn’t, and another search revealed nothing. The conscious guards swore the door locks were controlled at a central location, deep in the city, and that it would take a high-level order delivered in person to the control room to get them to open it in such emergency conditions. Ronon kicked at the metal in vain.

“Oh, that will help,” McKay snapped. “Break your foot in the process.”

Ronon fought the urge to kick at the door again, and instead thumped his fists against it. Pain radiated down his arms as they hit solid metal. “Tell me you’ve got something.”

“The weakest point is here,” he said, pointing to the side of the large lock, “but it’s still a thick metal bar attached to a thick metal door with an electronic lock encased in metal.”

Ronon bounced, drumming his fingers against his leg with impatience. McKay pulled a wire then yelped as it sparked. He jumped back, waving his hand in pain.

“Not good,” he squeaked.

“What?”

“Given enough time, maybe I could override the lock, but that last wire… Part of this door is connected to send signals to the main control center, and I may have just alerted them that we’re messing with the door.”

“McKay!” Ronon growled.

“I don’t know for sure,” he snapped back. “Look, I can get the door open, but this lock is… impressive. It could take me an hour or two to do it.”

Beckett cleared his throat from behind them. “I don’t think we have that kind of time.”

“I can help,” Sheppard whispered.

Ronon snapped his head up and looked at his friend. He’d almost forgotten about him sitting in the middle of the room. Sheppard still looked haggard and half-dead slumped in his cart, but there was something in the way he’d said those words that sent dread washing through Ronon. He frowned at the expression on his friend’s face. Sheppard moved his arm until his hand flopped onto his stomach, and Ronon felt his insides turn cold.

“Sheppard, no,” he said.

“What?” McKay asked, spinning around, and the others stopped moving, their attention drawn to the sudden shift of tension in the air.

“John,” Ronon started.

“Only option,” Sheppard said, speaking a little louder. He blinked and drew in a rough breath, and Ronon could see the effort it was taking to focus.

“What option?” Beckett asked. He moved away from the injured guard and glanced down at Sheppard’s hand lying over his stomach. His eyes widened. “No, that is not an option. I won’t do that.”

“What is it?” Orin, asked.

“Bomb,” Ronon answered. He pointed toward Sheppard. “We use the bomb they stuck in Sheppard to blow the door.”

Teyla had moved around the guards and was now kneeling at Sheppard’s head, one hand on his forehead. “That will kill him.”

“Aye, it will. I’m not doing that.”

Ronon heard a choking sound, and he glanced up to see Kaia, her face white as she stared down at Sheppard. “They said he was sick,” she whispered.

“Yeah, sick because they cut him open and stuck a bomb in his stomach,” McKay snapped. “That way, regardless of what the trial judges decided, all Shiana had to do was flick the switch on her detonator and she got the justice she came for.”

Kaia stumbled back, bringing a hand to her mouth. Halling grabbed her arm, steadying her and slipping the rifle out of her loose grip. Ronon turned back to Sheppard. He ran through their supplies again in his head, feeling his stomach twist at the conclusion he was reaching.

“What about the guards? What do they have?” McKay asked.

Teyla swallowed, paling a little. “The rifles, knives, some food, water, and alcohol. Two of them had what I believe are radios, but there is nothing that will help us.”

“I don’t want to do anything that’s going to hurt Sheppard more,” Ronon growled, “but we have to get through this door. What other options do we have? McKay?”

He glanced at McKay, who opened his mouth then snapped it shut and shook his head. He looked terrified and guilt-stricken, and Ronon’s chest tightened. He hadn’t meant to put it on McKay like that, but the scientist had come up with so many last-minute plans in the past, it had been a reflex to turn to him for ideas.

No one else said anything. Sheppard’s eyes had slid closed, but he forced them open again with a groan. Ronon watched him struggle to stay awake, puffs of breath fogging up the mask. How much longer was he going to last?

“Do it,” Sheppard whispered. He grabbed onto Beckett’s sleeve and tugged, drawing the other man’s attention. “Do it.”

“John, I am not—”

“Doc,” Ronon interrupted. His chest felt suddenly heavy but he forced his lungs to expand and take in a deep breath. “We have to get him home.”

Beckett looked like he was going to protest again. He stared hard at Sheppard for a moment, pressing his lips together, then finally relented with a nod. They spread the blankets in the cart out on the floor, and Ronon and Halling lifted Sheppard out. They eased him to the ground, and Ronon grit his teeth at the cries of pain coming from his friend. Teyla had folded someone’s jacket and laid it on the ground for a pillow while Beckett spread out his remaining medical supplies on the floor next to him.

“Ronon, I need you to hold the flashlight. The lights in here aren’t terrible, but the better I can see, the better chance he has.” Ronon nodded, and the doctor knelt down. “John, I’m not going to lie to you. This is beyond dangerous. I can’t even begin to guess what your odds of survival are.”

“B-better than…staying here,” Sheppard answered.

“I know, and that’s the only reason I’m even considering this.” He pulled out a syringe and injected it quickly into the IV. “That’s all I can give you—I have no idea what kind of drugs these people have pumped into your system, so I still don’t dare give you anything stronger.”

“S’okay.”

“No, John, it’s not. The pain alone from doing this could kill you, and what I’ve given you will barely put a dent in that. Not to mention the amount of blood you’ll lose in the process, and the risk of further infection, or any number of complications. On top of all that, we’re talking about a _bomb._ ”

Sheppard sucked in a deep breath but said nothing. He stared at the doctor until Beckett sighed. Using a knife, he slit through Sheppard’s shirt and peeled back the bandage. Ronon cringed at the incision mark but held the flashlight steady.

“Everyone needs to move back,” Beckett said. “Teyla, love, I need you to keep him calm, and watch his breathing and heart rate. What I wouldn’t give for another bag of saline right now. ”

The others shuffled away, and Beckett pulled on a pair of gloves, and then leaned forward. “Ready?”

Sheppard nodded, and it was one of the rare instances where Ronon saw open fear on his friend’s face. Beckett cleaned off his chest around the sutures, then laid out what he needed next to him. If Ronon had had the choice, he would have turned away, but he shoved the handgun into the waistband of his pants and held the light up, feeling obligated to watch and see this thing in its entirety.

Sheppard hissed as Beckett slid a small pair of scissors under the first black thread. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he flinched when the doctor snipped the thread, jerking the light in his hand. Beckett paused, snipping the next loop of thread when Ronon had steadied the flashlight’s beam. Sheppard was breathing fast, his eyes squeezed tightly closed, and the doctor’s steadying hand on his chest rose and fell quickly.

The incision was enflamed and oozing, obviously infected. As Beckett snipped the last of the sutures, Sheppard cried out, flailing his left arm and kicking his feet. Teyla grabbed the errant arm, pulling it above his head out of the way and squeezing his hand. With her other hand, she smoothed back his hair, bending close to whisper soft encouragement into his ear.

“I need someone to hold his legs,” Beckett called out without looking up from his work. Halling stepped forward instantly, pulling Sheppard’s legs straight and pinning his ankles to the ground. Sheppard’s splinted right arm jerked in response, causing him to cry out, then lay still.

When Beckett grabbed the scalpel, Ronon sucked in a deep breath and glanced around the room. Three of the guards were staring wide-eyed at the surgery taking place a few feet in front of them. Orin had turned his back and continued to stand guard at the side tunnel. Kaia had a rifle again and was helping Keras keep watch over the young soldiers, and Willa was watching the waterway corridor, but they shot glances toward Sheppard with every pained cry he uttered. McKay had backed into the door and looked like he was about to pass out.

“Ronon, light,” Beckett called out.

“Sorry,” he said, turning his attention back to Sheppard’s surgery. Beckett was slicing through the scar tissue that had already started to form, but the incision was new and the wound broke apart easily. Sheppard threw his head back, his body going rigid at the pain, and blood welled up from the wound and ran down the sides of his ribs, the red a sharp contrast to his pale skin.

Beckett paused, and Sheppard’s body suddenly went lax. Ronon saw his team leader’s eyes roll and then flutter closed as he passed out, and Teyla and Halling both eased their grips on his body.

“Teyla?”

“His pulse is still rapid, as is his breathing.”

“Thank God,” Beckett breathed out. He pushed his finger slowly into the wound and Ronon cringed. He’d seen a lot in his life, but the sight of a man shoving his hand into another man’s stomach was almost too much. He swallowed, forcing himself to watch and keep the light steady.

“I can feel the bloody thing,” the doctor said. “It’s not deep.”

“Careful,” Ronon urged.

“Aye.” Very slowly, he began pulling his fingers out, bringing with it a flat pack about the size of a small deck of Earth playing cards. “It’s wrapped in something, almost looks like Saran wrap,” Beckett said. When it cleared the wound, he set it gently to the side and focused his attention on Sheppard’s wound.

Ronon wanted to run to the bomb and throw it as far away from all of them as he could, but he gripped the flashlight tighter and focused his attention on giving Beckett as much light as possible. McKay pushed himself away from the door and stumbled to the guards, grabbing one of the flasks on the floor nearby. While Beckett packed Sheppard’s wound, McKay rinsed off the blood, then peeled back the plastic wrap.

“Um, okay,” he said, holding the small bomb up. “This is pretty straightforward and should pack enough punch to blow the lock on the door.”

“Set it up,” Ronon said. “We need to move fast.” With a nod, McKay returned to the door and began setting up the bomb.

“How’s his breathing?” Beckett asked.

“Fast,” Teyla answered. “His pulse is still very rapid as well.”

He laid a final thick bandage over the top of the wound, then had Teyla lift Sheppard’s shoulders up while he wrapped a bandage tightly around his entire torso. “This should keep the packing in place until I can get him into the infirmary. How soon can we get out of here?”

He looked up at Ronon as he asked, but McKay answered. “Ready when you are,” he said. “We need to move back, though—out of the way.”

“Once that door blows open, we have to run,” Ronon announced to everyone. The others nodded and prodded the young guards down the waterway tunnel, out of the way.

“We can’t jar him,” Beckett said. “That cart will be too rough if we have to run with him in it.”

“I got it,” Ronon answered. He tossed the flashlight aside and slid his arms under Sheppard’s body. With Teyla and Beckett’s help, he eased his friend into his arms, holding him as steadily as he could. It was an awkward position, and Ronon’s arms began to burn almost as soon as he stood up, but a fireman’s carry was out of the question.

“Can you carry him like that?” McKay asked as the entire group filed down the waterway tunnel and away from the bomb.

“I got it,” he hissed back. “Blow the damn door.”

McKay fumbled for the detonator he’d ripped out of Shiana’s hands, and then for the third time that day, flipped the switch and detonated a bomb. The sound blasted through the room and up the tunnel and the ground shook. Ronon felt a rush of air, and then nothing.

“Shiana doesn’t go halfway on anything, does she?” McKay muttered, and in the dim light of the hallway, his face looked a little green.

Teyla peered around the corner and then darted forward. “The door is open,” she called out. “There is a flashing light above it, though—an alarm of some kind. Hurry!”

They peeled out after her at a run. The bomb had twisted the metal bar out of the lock and the door was swinging open. Halling and Beckett matched Ronon’s stride and the three of them burst out of the door at the same time into fresh air. It was evening, the clouds in the sky turning yellow as the sun began to set behind the mountains. A path led away from the door and ran alongside the stream of dirty water.

Teyla ran ahead, leading the way, followed by Kaia and McKay. Willa and Keras each had a supporting hand on Orin as they urged the old man to run faster. Ronon forced his legs to move faster, intent on putting as much distance behind them and the mountain as possible. Sheppard groaned in his arms but he didn’t dare look down at his friend.

Too soon, he heard shouts behind him, and then the pounding feet of soldiers in pursuit. He screamed against the burning muscles in his arms and legs and forced himself to keep running. The jumpers were supposed to be in the sky, monitoring the situation, and he could only hope they would swoop down and pick them up before the guards of Daet caught up to them and started firing.

Sheppard cried out again, and then Ronon felt the handgun at his belt loosen. A second later, the gun fired in three quick bursts. He stumbled to a halt and spun around. Sheppard went limp again in his arms and the gun fell from his hand. Thirty feet back along the path, he saw Shiana stumble and fall to her knees, then grab at her leg. Two guards rolled back onto the path, away from the trees where they’d taken cover. With a scream, Shiana pushed herself to her feet, took two limping steps and raised her rifle.

A burst of P-90 fire erupted around Ronon, scattering the guards. Shiana stumbled backward, then took aim again, but before she should shoot, Major Lorne stepped forward and fired again. She dropped the rifle, the murderous rage in her face visible even from so far way, then collapsed on the ground and did not move again.

“Jumper’s fifteen feet back,” Lorne said. “We’ll cover.”

Ronon spun on his heel, holding his burden tighter and sprinting the last few feet to safety.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

 **Part 5**

John woke up to a jumble of voices shouting and hissing at each other. He tensed instantly, then threw his head back in pain. His body was ripping in half, the skin stretching and snapping like rubberbands. The voices grew louder, a blur of hands and arms overhead blocking most of his sight.

Surgery. Bomb. They were doing it again. He saw a flash of dark hair out of the corner of his eye, and he flinched, moaning at the sensation of his stomach tearing into a gaping hole.

“Blood pressure’s dropping,” a woman’s voice snapped out, and others answered her with sharp yells and rough hands stripping off his clothes. He began to shake, the air brushing against his skin ice cold, and the pain ratcheted up another notch.

“He’s in shock,” a man said. The doctor from Hoff? Maybe. John couldn’t tell. He blinked open his eyes long enough to see hands descending toward his face, and then something hard was pressed against his mouth, smelling of bottled air and plastic.

“Pulse is weak and thready.”

“Get him hooked up to the monitor. And we many need to intubate.”

“No urine output.”

“We need to move quickly.” It was the man again, John thought, and the quick, muttered responses made it sound like he was in charge.

“Surgical bay is ready, Doctor Beckett. Doctor Keller is prepped and waiting.”

“I need those lab results back ASAP.”

 _Beckett?_ John dragged in a deep breath, twisting his head to dislodge the thing on his face. A woman leaned forward, her dark hair falling around her face and his eyes widened in panic.

“Doctor, he’s awake,” she said, and it took another second for him to recognize Marie—Atlantis’ head nurse. Not Shiana. But if Marie was here, then that meant…

“John,” Carson was suddenly looking down at him, his fingers pressing gently into the side of his head.

John blinked, his eyes watering from being open and fighting the constant, overwhelming pain and exhaustion. Carson had been there, in the tunnel, cutting him open. Had it worked?

“Easy, son,” the doctor was saying, his voice calm and steady. Carson wouldn’t be relaxed if there was a live bomb still sitting in his gut, would he? John didn’t think so. He licked his lips, blinking again and trying to ride out the cresting agony in his stomach.

“We’re home, in Atlantis,” Carson said. “We’re about to wheel you into surgery.”

“Ready now, Doctor.”

Carson glanced up and nodded to someone out of sight, then turned his attention back to John. “You relax and let us get you through this, alright? You’ve been through enough already.”

“Lab results are in,” someone called out.

John flinched, then groaned.

“Let’s go,” Carson said.

The bed began to shift, the ceiling rolling past. It wasn’t fast, he didn’t think, but it was enough for his head to pulse and whirl like he’d just stepped off one of those spinning carnival rides he’d loved when he was younger. Sometime in the last minute or so, someone had spread a sheet over him, and while it did nothing to combat the cold, he grabbed onto it, trying to ground himself.

“We’re almost there, John.” Carson spoke as he walked, keeping a warm hand on John’s forehead. The lights changed, growing brighter as his gurney was wheeled into the operating room, and another face appeared above him.

“Hello, Colonel,” she said, and despite the mask and head-to-toe covering in surgical garb, he recognized Jennifer Keller. “We won’t be long—we’re just going to tie up a few loose ends, alright?”

There was another mumble of voices around him, then cold liquid raced up his arm, muting the pain. He felt his eyes grow heavy as the rest of his body went numb, and he finally let them flutter closed as dozens of hands swarmed around him.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

John drifted, but it wasn’t until the darkness started to separate out into different shades that he realized he wasn’t dreaming. The shadows took on distinct edges—a wall, a curtain, a cupboard. There was a soft blue glow and the buzz of machinery around him, and he felt like he’d been asleep for a very long time.

He waited, content to wallow in the dark shadows. Pain was a distant memory, still there beneath the surface but easily pushed aside. He was lying on a bed, his head raised slightly on a soft pillow and turned to one side. He blinked, and the shadows came into focus a little more. He heard a rhythmic pumping sound somewhere close by, and felt his chest rise and fall in concert with it. Only then did he feel the breathing tube in his mouth and throat, and another tube tugging at his right nostril, but he was too exhausted to do anything but file away the information for later.

Beneath the sound of the ventilator, John heard rough breathing next to him. It was steady and deep and a little louder on the inhale, though not quite outright snoring. Ronon. He would recognize that anywhere. John’s head was stuck fast in a crease in the pillow, the muscles in his neck too weak to turn or lift his head, and his arms two-ton weights beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the silhouette of dread locks slumped in a chair next to the bed.

“Colonel?” a voice whispered, padding quietly from around a curtain and blocking his view of Ronon. “Thought I saw that you were awake.” She tugged at the bedsheet and pressed the cool disc of a stethoscope against his chest.

John blinked, feeling himself sinking back toward sleep. As the woman checked him over, the pain in his body started to grow, demanding more and more of his attention. In the soft glow of light from behind him, John recognized one of the ICU nurses as she leaned forward and adjusted one of the machines behind him.

She glanced down, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead. “Are you in pain?” she whispered. Ronon’s breath caught, and he grunted before settling back to sleep. The pain in John’s torso turned sharp and burning, spreading out from his middle to race up his neck and down his legs. He frowned, and the nurse squeezed his arm.

“Doctor Cole is on her way. Just relax, sir.”

John blinked, but the effort to keep his eyes open was too much. He let go, willing himself to fall asleep before the pain really picked up.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The next time he remembered waking up, it was daytime, and he was surrounded by a half dozen people. They babbled quietly to each other, but it was still loud enough to push back sleep and draw him up to full consciousness. He frowned, feeling the tube in his throat and nose, and while he wasn’t quite gagging on them, he swallowed instinctively against the pressure.

“John?” Carson separated out from the crowd of scrubbed personnel around him, resting a hand on his arm.

John blinked, any response he might have made hindered by the continued presence of the ventilator. His stomach felt like someone had taken a grinder to it, churning up raw meat. Carson called out to the group around him, and then Marie was stepping forward with a syringe, injecting it into the IV port on his left arm.

The agony abated, giving way for other sensations to move in. He was stifling hot and he shoved the thin sheet pulled up to this chest down toward his waist with his left hand. His right arm felt heavy, and he caught a glimpse of a blue cast from elbow to knuckles before the world spun and blurred out of focus.

The babble around him increased. Carson wanted something done about his fever, and Marie murmured an apology as she drew blood for more tests. Something cool was pressed against his forehead and he felt himself relax slightly.

“We’re still showing a low urine output,” someone called out.

John watched Carson nod, scratching the side of his jaw. “Continue with dialysis for now, and let’s run another scan this afternoon.”

The doctor looked haggard and unshaven, possibly even more tired than John felt. He leaned forward, patting John’s arm. “I’m just going to check the incision, lad.” Without waiting for a response, he peeled back the bandage and began fingering John’s chest and stomach.

Had Marie not just upped his pain meds, John might have screamed. Instead, he felt the pressure of Carson’s fingers around the incision but little pain. Half of the nurses around him left, and the room grew quiet enough for him to hear a monitor beeping rapidly close by.

Carson straightened, then gave John a small smile. “You’re doing better. Keep fighting.”

John’s chest rose and fell with the ventilator, and that seemed an apt enough response. The nurses returned, spreading a heavy cooling blanket over the top of him and dampening the overwhelming heat.

His strength drained away abruptly, and despite Carson’s urging, he drifted off again.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

John blinked and it was night, the infirmary dark and quiet. He blinked again, and Carson was leaning over him, muttering as he checked one thing and another. Then it was Keller, then another nurse, then Carson again, then no one, then three or four people at once. Sometimes it was a member of his team; sometimes all of his team.

Time passed in a haze, and he was only sure time was actually moving forward the morning he woke up without the ventilator. He licked his lips, swallowed what little saliva he could work up, and reveled in the relative freedom of a nasal cannula.

“Colonel, you’re awake again,” a woman said brightly, breezing into his room. Not a room really, just a bed curtained off on three sides to give him a bit of privacy. He looked up at her, grateful when he managed to roll his head a little on the pillow and follow her movements. “I was just about to come check on you.”

He recognized her from the other times he’d woken up, but her name escaped him. She listened to his breathing, checked his incision, temperature, blood pressure, and a myriad of tubes and bags all over the bed.

“Your fever’s down to 101.4. Doctor Beckett and Doctor Keller will be happy to hear that,” she said.

She was watching him, and he wondered if she was waiting for a reply of some kind. He managed an incoherent grunt and then squirmed on the bed, looking for a more comfortable position.

“How’s your pain level right now? You’re not due for another dose for a few hours, but if it’s bad…” Her voice trailed off as he shook his head.

“No,” he mumbled. “M’…okay.” He licked his lips again, his throat parched.

“Alright, sir. Would you like some water?”

She smiled at his nod, then patted his arm, assuring him she’d be right back. He closed his eyes, the hum of the infirmary around him lulling him back to sleep. At the patter of approaching footsteps, he forced his eyes open again, expecting the nurse.

“John, it is good to see you awake,” Teyla said, stepping into his cubicle. She lifted a glass of water and held the straw to his lips without prompting. He sucked in the water, sighing in relief after it splashed down his throat.

“Thanks,” he rasped.

She smiled and set the glass on the table next to him. Heads poked around the curtain and peered in at him—Ronon and Rodney.

“Sheppard,” Rodney greeted, “you look… um… healthy…”

Ronon rolled his eyes, a small grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Hey, buddy.”

“Hey,” John answered.

“I just need to—hey!” Carson exclaimed as he stepped into John’s cubicle and almost barreled into Ronon. “What are you lot doing back here? How many times have I told you no more than one person at a time?” He glared at each of them, but the look of exasperation dropped when he met John’s gaze. “You’re awake!”

They shuffled around, Carson making his way around Ronon and Rodney to John’s other side. While the doctor checked him over, repeating what the nurse had done only moments earlier, his team busied themselves with widening the curtain barriers and doubling the size of his “room.” By the time they were done, John breathed a sigh of relief, feeling a little less crowded.

“You had a close call, there’s no question of that,” Carson was saying, and John dragged his attention back to the doctor. “You’re still running a bit of a fever, but we’ve got it on the run now. Kidney function is back within normal range as well.”

“Huh?”

“Ach, sorry. I’ve been telling so many people your condition, I forgot I haven’t laid it all out for you.”

And so he did, making John wish he could sink back into the bed and disappear. The severity of his condition was not lost on him. His snapshots of lucidity had represented a mad dash through the tunnels of the mountain fortress, two surgeries—one in Daet and one in Atlantis—followed by four days in a medically induced coma fighting off peritonitis and teetering on the brink of sepsis. Even after he’d been brought out of that, he’d still been in critical condition, technically awake for another four days though he remembered little of them.

Carson checked the incision last and frowned at the sight.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

He jerked his head up, then shook it. “Nothing, sorry. It still shocks me, what they did to you.”

His team had finished with their cubicle renovations, and they stood quietly in the corner, waiting for Carson to finish. All three of their faces flushed with anger.

“The scarring will be bad, I’m afraid,” Carson continued. “It should fade a little with time, but not much.”

Teyla stepped forward, grabbing onto John’s fingers below his cast. “My people have a lotion that is said to help with such scars. I will see if I can get a hold of it for you, if you’d like.”

“’Kay,” he mumbled, still reeling a little from what he’d missed over the last week.

“How’s your appetite? Can I get you anything to eat?”

John shook his head immediately. His whole body felt a little numb, a testament to the drugs running through his veins, but one thing he knew for sure. He was definitely not hungry.

“I didn’t think so,” Carson sighed. “Let us know when you are hungry and we can get you some food, maybe even take the NG tube out.”

John twitched his nose, feeling the slight pull on his nostril. The nasal cannula beneath it was delivering a steady stream of oxygen and he breathed in deeply.

“I’ll give you all a few minutes with him, but that’s it. You’ve still got a good long recovery ahead of you, lad, and you need your rest.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Ronon said, clapping him on the shoulder. They shuffled around again, but it was a little easier with the extra space. Ronon and Rodney produced extra chairs, and they both plopped down and threw their feet up on the bed.

“How’d…get back here?” John asked when they were all settled. He cleared his throat, frowning at the weakness of his voice.

“Once we blew the door, we made a run for the trees. Lorne was there with a jumper, whisked us back to safety,” Rodney answered.

“Others? Halling and everyone?”

“They came back to Atlantis with us first, and then went back to their own worlds.”

“And I have heard from the others who came to the courtroom that they have all now returned safely to their own worlds.”

“Good,” John whispered. He felt tension unwind from his chest. He wasn’t sure he could have lived with good people dying because they’d come to show their support for him. The memory of the trial flashed through his mind, as well as all of the people who’d stood up against the judges.

He rolled his head toward Ronon, suddenly smiling. “You did it.”

“What?”

“Trial,” John said. “Remember it, the end. You won.”

“McKay blew up the courtroom before we got to that part,” Ronon said.

John shook his head. “No, saw it in their faces. Most of the judges… you convinced… them…”

His voice gave out, dissolving into a dry hack. Teyla moved quickly, holding the glass of water to his lips. He sucked as much of the liquid as he could through the straw before she pulled it away from him, and he groaned in despair.

“Not too much too quickly,” she chided.

He swallowed the water slowly, realizing a second later that Teyla was right. His stomach felt uncomfortably full now. He blinked in exhaustion, feeling weakness permeate his body, but he was unwilling to let this moment with his team go.

“Glad everyone’s okay,” he whispered.

“When you are feeling stronger, you have a number of gifts to enjoy,” Teyla said, pushing his hair back from his forehead.

“Gifts?”

“From our allies. You’d think it was Christmas or something,” Rodney said.

“Word has spread about this trial and what was done to you. I believe they wish to express their support of you and of Atlantis.”

“What kind… stuff?”

“Plants,” Ronon answered. “Fruit. Weird statues.”

“Oh.”

“Fruit baskets,” Rodney piped up. “We travel to a different galaxy and the natives shower us with _fruit baskets._ What is wrong with this universe?”

“I thought you liked them,” Ronon said.

“It’s not that,” Rodney huffed. “It’s just… _fruit baskets._ ”

Ronon turned to John, a glint in his eye. “He’s already eaten three of them.”

“I did not… eat all of them.”

John grinned, relaxing as his team teased and chatted around him. His eyes were growing heavy, but he blinked fast, a sudden thought occurring to him.

“Wait,” he said, interrupting Ronon and Rodney’s debate over which basket had been the best so far. “What about… judges? What happened?”

“The Coalition is taking a strong stance against them, and against Daet for hosting the trial,” Teyla answered, once again holding his fingers poking out of the cast. “They believe only a few were behind the entire affair to begin with, and they want to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

“In part because the trial was an attempt to gain popular appeal and steal power away from the Coalition,” Rodney huffed.

John nodded. He felt his stomach tighten at the question he needed to ask next, but part of him wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with it.

Ronon seemed to read his mind. He dropped his feet to the floor with a thud and leaned forward, clamping a hand over John’s arm. “Shiana’s dead.”

Breath whooshed out of his lungs, and both Ronon and Teyla tightened their grips on him. “Sure?”

“Yeah. She chased us out of the mountain, probably would have shot me in the back if you hadn’t shot first.”

“Don’t remember that.”

Ronon nodded. “You got her in the leg. She was getting back up, but it was enough time for Lorne to take care of it. I saw her go down, John.”

A pain throbbed suddenly, deep in his chest. Was he relieved she was dead? He wasn’t sure. Relieved that she couldn’t do this to him or anyone else again definitely, but that didn’t mean he’d wanted her dead. She’d been driven to insanity by her grief. Maybe it was good she was dead—no longer in pain at least from what the Asurans had ripped away from her.

“John?” Teyla’s voice was soft and worried. He realized he was trembling slightly and he worked to get himself under control. He wasn’t cold, but he said nothing when Rodney stood and retrieved a blanket, then helped spread it over him.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“Sure,” Rodney said with a shrug.

“No, I mean… thanks, for everything. The trial, getting out of there, all the people who came. Saving my life.” He looked at all of them, his mind racing. He’d wanted to say more but his mind had gone blank as soon as he’d started talking.

They smiled—Teyla looking genuinely happy and Ronon proud. Rodney crossed his arms, looking slightly uncomfortable but pleased in a way only he could pull off.

“I owe you all,” John finished, his cheeks reddening a little. It sounded lame, but he was tired and starting to hurt, and that was a good enough excuse for him.

“Yeah, you do,” Rodney said, rocking on his feet. “Carson did mention it would be some time before you’re back on your feet. Maybe a little Earth-side vacation is in order.” He paused, letting a small smile slip. “On your dime, of course.”

John grinned, stifling a yawn. “Anything you want,” he said.

“A cruise,” Ronon answered immediately.

“Excuse me?”

“I want to do one of those cruise things on a boat. Like in the magazines.”

Rodney scowled at him. “We live on a giant floating cruise ship. Take a walk down the hall and call that a cruise.”

“Doesn’t look like the ones in the magazines,” Ronon said, folding his arms.

“What could you possibly find appealing in a cruise, based entirely on pictures from some magazine?”

Ronon looked at John, then shifted his gaze back to Rodney, a glint in his eye.

“I still don’t get… oh, wait. Do you mean women?”

Ronon said nothing, but a slow grin spread across his face. Rodney turned to John, pointing at their teammate. “Cruise is a good idea. But not to the Caribbean. Or anywhere near the Bermuda Triangle, because that is just asking for trouble. Where should we go? Alaska? No, that’s too cold this time of year. Oh, we should invite Carson, too! My sister went on a Princess Cruise—”

“I’m not going on a Princess Cruise,” Ronon interjected.

“What? Why not? Because of the name? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“What other ones do they have?”

Rodney blew out his breath, staring up at the ceiling as he searched his memory. “There’s a Norwegian something or other, Royal Caribbean, Carnival…”

“Carnival. I want to do that one.”

“You can’t just pick a cruise based on the name of the cruise ship company. These things require careful research and planning. There are a lot of factors you have to consider, like food and safety records and cost—well, I guess we don’t have to consider cost so much…”

John turned toward Teyla, squeezing her fingers until she leaned closer. He lowered his voice as Ronon and Rodney continued their discussion. “You don’t have to do this cruise thing if you don’t want to.”

Teyla smiled, pressing her forehead to his for a brief second. “I would not miss it, although perhaps we should invite Jennifer as well, to keep Rodney out of trouble.”

John grinned back. “Good idea,” he said. He sucked in another deep breath, feeling the aches and pains accrued over the last couple of weeks spreading throughout his body. Sleep beckoned, and he blinked in response as it began to pull him under. He squeezed Teyla’s hand one last time. “A little downtime with friends sounds perfect.”

END


End file.
